Open Thou Mine Eyes
by Kissman
Summary: When Mrs. Hughes loses her eyesight, her life as the housekeeper of Downton Abbey is over. Perhaps with Mr. Carson she will be able to realize a new life just beginning. Carson/Hughes.
1. A Shock

**Before we start, I must thank chelsie fan for being the most wonderful beta a girl could ask for. This story has been many many months in the making, and it almost certainly wouldn't be published without all her hard work and encouragment. She's lovely and so are her stories, so go read them if you haven't already. I'll wait here.**

**Back? Ready? Let's begin…**

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_Yorkshire, November 1924_

It happened quickly. From the minute she'd awoken that morning she'd felt that something wasn't quite right. She blinked repeatedly and rubbed at her eyes, but the brown spots dancing in her peripheral vision refused to leave. She had a splitting headache. Had she hit her head on the bedframe in the night? Leaving the lights off she gingerly dressed herself in the dark, trying to avoid moving her head any more than necessary.

She would go downstairs for some food and a headache powder; that ought to do the trick. No point in giving up on the day with it barely begun.

By breakfast the unnerving brown spots had invaded more of her field of view. The powder had alleviated the worst of her headache, but if anything, her vision seemed more obscured. Mr. Carson glanced at her curiously. She'd been awfully quiet this morning and seemed preoccupied. He noted that she blinked far more than usual and rubbed her temples repeatedly over the course of their short meal. He wasn't about to question her health in front of the staff, not if he wanted an honest answer at any rate, but he made a mental note to ask her later.

By midmorning she discovered that she couldn't read her day cards properly, and panic slowly started to rise in her chest. The words were blocked, hidden behind dark foggy clouds that refused to lift. She flung the paper down in frustration. This would never do. Resignedly she put her head down on her desk. She felt silly; with her headache gone she wasn't in any pain and there was no explanation for what was happening. _It will pass_, she reassured herself; _surely it will pass_. The thought did little to quell her growing anxiety.

The signs of her advancing years had made themselves known in little ways here and there. The pain in her back when climbing the stairs after a long day was more noticeable over the last few years. Her fingers stiffened in the cold more than they used to, and her body had long ago lost the ability to bear children. Despite this, Mrs. Hughes had never felt particularly old. The lines on her face when she looked in the mirror reminded her that she was indeed aging, but she'd always viewed it as a largely aesthetic component of herself, not who she was inside. The subtle changes had been slow and largely superficial. This was different. This was a sudden, debilitating change and it had the potential to ruin her.

_Calm down woman_, she thought; _you're getting ahead of yourself_. There was no reason to be distraught, certainly not yet. For all she knew it was a temporary little blip and by evening she would be laughing about it. She needed to do something productive; that would make her feel better. Casting her paperwork aside, she headed for the laundry. Not her usual prerogative, but she liked keeping the laundry maids on their toes.

Her visit had come as a surprise to the poor girl working the laundry, but thankfully everything was in order. Hidden away in a distant part of the house Mrs. Hughes busied herself with linens and towels, pretending to be making notes of what she wanted to put into rotation until it was time for luncheon. It was dull, but the physical labour suppressed her panic.

At luncheon she realized that she couldn't see her plate well enough to eat properly and she almost dissolved into tears on the spot. Hastily she put down her cutlery and made for the kitchen. She needed Mrs. Patmore. Mrs. Patmore would understand.

The cook had been surprised at being summoned out of the kitchen mid-meal, but offered no resistance. In the privacy of her sitting room Mrs. Hughes poured out the story to her sympathetic friend. It was obvious that the woman needed a doctor, but having someone else point it out was the push she needed to take action. Mrs. Patmore insisted they go to see Dr. Clarkson that very afternoon. If it really was as bad as all that then it was an emergency she'd said. Mrs. Hughes was forced to agree.

"Will you tell Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore asked, once it had been decided.

"Not yet. Let's find out what we're dealing with first." She ought to tell him - she was sure he'd be sympathetic - but that wasn't what she wanted now. All he could do from here was worry and that would only make her feel worse. They would go on the pretense of an unexpected errand, and she would speak with him later, if necessary.

One hour later they were walking, arm in arm, towards to the village. Mrs. Patmore, in her infinite wisdom, had thrown together a sandwich for Mrs. Hughes to eat on the way. Mrs. Hughes insisted that she was not hungry, but the chiding look she received from the cook could have been seen for miles, poor vision or not. She ate, forcing herself to chew and swallow despite the growing knot in the pit of her stomach. The women walked in silence, Mrs. Hughes focusing her attention on putting one foot carefully in front of the other.

The déjà vu as they approached the Downton Cottage Hospital was overwhelming. She had been fine on each prior occasion; perhaps she would be lucky again. Mrs. Patmore, apparently having learned her lesson from last time, managed to keep her anxieties about the situation mostly to herself. She clutched her friend's arm tightly, trying to infuse confidence in the face of uncertainty.

The exam was simple and straightforward. Look this way, look that way. The doctor shone a bright light in her eyes and peered at them through his ophthalmoscope. There were a few routine questions. No, she didn't think she'd hit her head, certainly not very hard. No, she didn't feel any pain, just that her eyes were very heavy. Yes, it had started this morning. No, there were no other symptoms. The doctor's manner was deliberately neutral throughout, a model of professionalism. When he was finished and had reached a conclusion, he made a point of having her sit down in front of his desk to deliver the news. Mrs. Patmore sat next to her, uncharacteristically quiet.

He explained, gently and clearly, that her retinas were separating from the back of her eye. Both of them? she asked. That seemed patently unfair. Apparently so, although the right eye was visibly worse. It was uncommon, but not overly so. Perhaps she HAD bumped her head in the night? That would explain her headache this morning. It didn't make much difference, he was certain of the diagnosis. He informed her, as sympathetically as possible, that her sight would continue to diminish either to a very low level or completely. There was eye specialist in London if she wanted a second option, but Dr. Clarkson didn't see the need. There was no cure. Mrs. Patmore had gasped audibly at that, but Mrs. Hughes pressed on, ever practical.

"How long?" she asked him, fearing that she already knew the answer. Days, he told her, maybe less. She nodded. She appeared remarkably composed, but her hands trembled in her lap. The implications were clear, but there hadn't been time for it to sink in properly. It still felt surreal; it couldn't be something that was happening to her. Yet the evidence was right in front of her, in the shadows that obstructed her view of the good doctor's face.

He didn't have many words of reassurance; it was a very difficult thing to hear, and he had no medical recourse to offer. He tried to explain the anatomy behind what was happening to her eyes, but trailed off when he realized she wasn't listening anymore. She was in no state to make plans. Go home, he told her, and they would talk about logistics tomorrow. She would probably have more questions for him then. It was an upheaval of everything she knew; it would take time to figure out what she wanted. She thanked him, her voice as pleasant as ever, but it left him with the distinct impression that she wasn't quite there. He apologized sincerely that it wasn't better news and bid them farewell.

The two women walked out together arm in arm, much the way that had walked in, but now with the burden of truth haunting them. Mrs. Hughes tried to rationalize that it was better to know the worst than to fear it. It didn't help. Emotion threated to overwhelm her, so she returned her attention to walking, one foot and then the other, leaning on her friend to keep herself steady.

Only when they were safely back at Downton behind closed doors did Mrs. Patmore decide she could no longer refrain from asking. "Mrs. Hughes? What will you do?"

The simple question brought Mrs. Hughes's emotions finally to the surface. Her vision blurred, this time from her tears.

"I don't know."

**TBC...**


	2. The Housekeeper's Sitting Room

**With my thanks to chelsie fan. **Thank you all so much for your amazing support of chapter one, with your reading, reviewing, favouriting (is that a word?) and following. You're all wonderful. ****

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What would she do? She didn't even know where to start. She certainly couldn't do her job; that was obvious. If it got any worse she wasn't sure she was going to be able to feed herself, let alone run the house.

"Mrs. Hughes?" She'd almost forgotten that Mrs. Patmore was there. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head. There wasn't anything anyone could do. She needed time to think. "No thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I'm sure you're needed in the kitchen."

Mrs. Patmore moved to protest that her girls could handle supper if need be, but Mrs. Hughes held up a hand to stifle the cook's objections. "Please. I'd rather be alone."

"If you're sure," said Mrs. Patmore softly. She gave her friend a comforting hug and Mrs. Hughes willed herself not to cry.

"Go," she insisted, breaking from the hug first, "and make my excuses?"

"'Course I will," said Mrs. Patmore, and she left her in peace.

Mrs. Hughes sank into her chair, exhausted and overwhelmed. It was too much; it was too fast. She would have to hand in her resignation to the family; there was no way to keep this a secret. She hadn't planned on working forever, but she also hadn't planned on leaving so soon. She didn't have the money or any idea of how she would take care of herself. Her Ladyship's words from her previous health scare sprang to mind: _If you are ill, you are welcome here for as long as you want to stay_. She was ill now, in a way, and she would bet her boots the offer would still stand. On the other hand, she was hardly going to stay at Downton, spending the rest of her days idle and useless but otherwise healthy. It would be awful enough to have lost her livelihood, but to constantly be reminded of it would be torturous. She had to go - somewhere, anywhere.

She shut her eyes. With them closed she could almost pretend that it wasn't happening and imagined that if she were to open them everything would be perfectly clear. What would she do? She would write to her sister. That's what family was for, wasn't it? They would not turn her away. It felt good to have plan, even if only the beginning of one.

She heard voices in the hall. Mr. Carson's timbre was unmistakable. He seemed to be looking for her, and Mrs. Patmore was doing a very valiant job at trying to put him off. She sighed. They were going to have to have the conversation sooner or later; it might as well be sooner. Clumsily she rose to her feet to open the door for him. She was pleased to have grasped the door handle on the first try, and Mrs. Patmore's failing arguments trailed off as the door swung open.

"I tried to tell him you didn't want-" began Mrs. Patmore.

Mrs. Hughes kept her head down and her voice deliberately low. "Come inside, both of you."

They did, Mr. Carson looking flummoxed and Mrs. Patmore looking guilty. Mrs. Hughes turned to go back to her chair only to hit her hip hard on the side table. Mrs. Patmore sprang into action, carefully guiding the poor housekeeper to her seat.

"Mrs. Hughes?" came Mr. Carson's voice, sounding almost frantic. "What's going on?"

Mrs. Patmore leaned in to whisper in her friend's ear, "Shall I tell him or would you like to?"

"I'll do it," she said firmly. "But would you shut the door?"

"It already is," replied Mr. Carson automatically. Then he looked between the two women in alarm. Why would she say something like that? She turned towards his voice, hoping to see him, needing to see him. If she tipped her head slightly to the side she thought she could make out his face, though it seemed rather watery.

"What on earth?!" exclaimed Mr. Carson. He hadn't seen her eyes properly until she'd cocked her head at him. They appeared different, as if slightly squashed, but what had really caused his alarm was the ring of blood around her irises.

"What?" she asked, suddenly very self-conscious.

"There's more blood than before," said Mrs. Patmore hurriedly. "Just a little more, but Dr. Clarkson said that might happen."

"Oh," she mumbled. He had mentioned it, but he had said so many things, and that hadn't even been close to the most important of them.

"Mrs. Hughes?" repeated Mr. Carson weakly.

She took a deep breath. "As you may have guessed by now, Mrs. Patmore and I did not go into the village for a lost fabric order…" He'd figured as much. It had been a hastily scrawled note from Mrs. Patmore on his desk that had informed him of their departure that afternoon. Even at the time it had seemed strange for them and now he understood why.

It was a difficult enough thing to say as it was, but she found it much worse because she couldn't meet his eye. She felt his concern, radiating off him in waves, but could offer no comforting gaze in return.

"We went to see Dr. Clarkson." This he had also figured. Would that she would just spit it out! Endless possibilities raced through his mind, each more terrible than the last. There was no feeling worse than this, surely. He tried not to let his impatience get the better of him; she was obviously struggling to find the words.

"Why?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "What's happened?"

She straightened her posture, hoping the action would goad her into being more forthright on the subject. It did the trick. "I'm going blind, Mr. Carson. Actually…I think I already am, mostly."

He looked at her dumbfounded. It didn't seem possible, but she was dead serious. He turned to Mrs. Patmore, hoping beyond hope that it was a terrible joke. The cook only nodded her head grimly, and he was forced to face the facts.

"Why didn't you tell me? When did you start to notice?" It killed him to think she might have hidden this from him. How long could it have been going on? Before today she'd always seemed fine to him. Was he really so unobservant?

"This morning," she said softly, putting that tiny piece of his anxiety to rest. "It's been getting steadily worse since I woke up."

"That's …fast."

For the first time that day Mrs. Hughes cracked a smile. He was just so blunt at times; she found it rather endearing and more than a little amusing. "You're telling me," she said archly.

"Sorry, that was….well, never mind what it was," he said gruffly, cursing himself inwardly for his obtuse remark. "What has Dr. Clarkson said? Is it permanent?"

"So it would seem," she confirmed.

Mr. Carson regarded her with a look of dismay she could not see. He wasn't sure what he could possibly say to make her feel better, but he had to say something. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm so sorry."

She would not dismiss him by saying that it was all right when clearly it was not. She had lost, in the span of just twelve short hours, the ability to do her job and lead her life, as she'd always known it. She wanted so desperately to be able to look at him, but her field of view was nothing except shapeless blurs at the moment. Her need to see him, combined with her complete inability to do so, caused her panic to reassert itself. The tears came, unbidden and insistent. She didn't mean to cry, but it appeared she didn't have any say in the matter.

She felt Mrs. Patmore's hand on her shoulder, "Come now, we'll figure it out."

Mrs. Hughes only wept harder and Mr. Carson thought his heart might break in two. He'd never seen her so distraught in all his life. He longed to pull her into his arms and rock her until she ceased her tears, but Mrs. Patmore seemed to be taking the lead in the comfort department and far be it from him to push in.

Mrs. Hughes's words came out in short, choppy bursts. "I'll…have to…go," she managed. Mr. Carson looked at Mrs. Patmore, horrified.

"No, no," said Mrs. Patmore, rubbing the housekeeper's back soothingly.

"But…I cannot work, so I cannot stay," she said, gesturing widely at the room around her. Her room, from where she'd kept the downstairs of Downton Abbey running so smoothly for so long. _Not my room_, she corrected herself: _the housekeeper's room_. It was a function of the position, after all.

"You can stay with me," insisted Mrs. Patmore. "I've been intending to retire for ages anyways. We'll live together, somewhere close by, and you won't have to worry about a thing."

Mrs. Patmore's pronouncement halted the tears, at least temporarily. Mrs. Hughes knew perfectly well that Mrs. Patmore's intention to retire had been fabricated minutes ago and not 'ages,' but she was touched to have a friend so willing to drop everything for her. She couldn't possibly accept the offer. It was bad enough that she was being forced into an early retirement; she would not drag her friend along with her, willing or not.

"You would leave your post here, to dress me and cook and clean for me? I could never ask that of you."

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"Even so," she said resolutely. "If I lived on the estate and you visited me that would be one thing, but I will not have you to give up your life here to be a nursemaid, Mrs. Patmore. I mean it."

Her tone indicated that the issue would be taken no further. Mrs. Patmore looked to Mr. Carson helplessly. He didn't know what to tell her. If she wouldn't stay with Mrs. Patmore there was very little he could suggest. He knew better than to push back; it wouldn't get them anywhere. Mrs. Patmore resumed stroking her friend's back. The comforting gesture was all she could think of to do.

"Mrs. Patmore!" Daisy's voice came echoing down the hall. "Something's wrong with the rice pudding!"

"Drat, I'd forgotten all about that!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed.

"Go then," said Mrs. Hughes wearily. "Don't let me keep you." Mrs. Patmore opened her mouth to protest, but dessert might truly be ruined if she didn't see to it soon. Mr. Carson took it upon himself to relieve her of her post, mouthing the words, "I'll stay," to the anxious cook. Mrs. Patmore relented and allowed him to take her place at Mrs. Hughes's side. Tenderly, he took the housekeeper's hands in his own and tried unsuccessfully to find words to ease her distress. Mrs. Patmore disappeared to the kitchen to see to her duties, leaving the heads of staff to their grief.

They sat in silence for a long time, trying to process the events of the day. He ran his thumb up and down the backs her hands, trying to reassure her with his presence. He had so many questions, but now was not the time to ask them.

"You understand that I have to leave?" she asked very quietly.

He did. Blind housekeepers were not an option and he knew the pain it would bring her to stay in the house, unable to do her job. It saddened him beyond belief to imagine her leaving them - her leaving him.

"Yes," he murmured. "When will you tell them?" The 'them' was left deliberately vague; both the family and the downstairs staff would have to be informed.

"I suppose I ought to tell the family first, perhaps before the dressing gong."

He nodded, but then realized she might not have noticed. "I'll go with you, if you like."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I should prefer it." It was a shame that it had happened so suddenly. There would be no time to look for a replacement, nor did she really have the ability to train one. Mrs. Hughes did not concern herself too much with this line of thought; she had far greater priorities at the moment.

"And downstairs? Some of them have got to know something's wrong already." That was also probably true: the longer they left it, the more time for rumour to warp the truth.

"At dinner then. But would you do it?"

He blinked in surprise. "If you wish," he said softly. "But what shall I tell them is happening?"

"Just the facts. That I can no longer see and that I'll be retiring." She didn't want to face them, not all at once and not in the servant's hall where she'd previously commanded such respect. The only two responses she could imagine were pity and amusement, and she didn't know which one she would loath more.

"If I announce that you're leaving, they'll want to know where you'll go," he cautioned her.

"I've given some thought to that." Of course she had. How she had been able to think of anything _but _that was remarkable. "Would you do me a great kindness, Mr. Carson?"

He jumped at the chance to be useful. "Anything! What is it?"

"I need to…" her voice started to shake a little, but she reigned it in. "I need to contact my sister. She and her husband live in Lytham St. Annes, and I'm sure they would take me in. Would you write the letter for me?"

Her sister. Naturally she'd go to her sister. It made sense that she wanted her family. He could see the logic in it, even if he would prefer she stay at Downton where he could take care of her. Swallowing this impossible desire he returned his attention to what she wanted, what she needed. "Would you like me to write it now?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

He rummaged around on her desk for a piece of paper and a pen. As he prepared to lay ink on paper he was grateful she couldn't see his trembling hands.

"Ready?"

She nodded, and with a heavy heart started to dictate the words that might take her away from him forever.

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**TBC...**


	3. Not Now, Not Ever

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

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_Dear Lorna,_

_I hope this finds you well. Please forgive the different handwriting; as you will see, I'm not capable of penning this myself. I'm sorry I'm not writing you with happier news, but circumstance does not allow it. You always teased me about retiring, and it seems that day has come more quickly than either of us expected. My eyesight is failing, or rather it's failed already, and without it I cannot possibly hope to continue on at Downton. While I'm sure they would welcome my staying in the house for a time, I cannot bear to think of living out my retirement here solely on the hospitality of the Crawley family. If you will have me, I should like to come and stay with you. I'm sure there is some small way I could be useful to you and I would delight in hearing your voice again._

_Write soon._

_Ever your loving sister,_

_Elsie_

Shaking, Mr. Carson put the pen down. It was so much more real on paper. How had life come to this so quickly? He knew her sister was the obvious choice, and it would do her well to be with family at a time like this, but he couldn't stand the idea of losing her. She was a fixture of the house; she was in every nook and cranny. He couldn't imagine life without her.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. Would you send it with the evening post for me?"

He swallowed hard. "Of course, Mrs. Hughes. If you wish to tell the family before the gong, I suggest we go up now."

She had no idea what time it was. The whole day was a slippery, blurry mess. She rose from her chair and hesitated, unsure of precisely where the door was. She had no desire to knock herself on any more rogue pieces of furniture.

"Could you…?" she wasn't sure how to ask for his help. She wasn't even sure precisely what she needed him to do, but she was going to need some sort of guidance if she was to get up the stairs un-bruised.

"Oh…yes, of course," he faltered, not knowing how to act, but very much wanting to be of assistance. Where does one put one's hands in such a situation? He would have happily swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs if he thought it would do any good. Somehow he doubted that was her wish.

"Just sort of…um…give me your arm, please?" Why on earth was this so awkward? She supposed they'd never walked arm in arm before. She'd held his hand once, but that was at the beach in Brighton, a million miles away from where they were now. Everything had been so easy between them when it was all knowing glances or delightful conversation, but now that there was physical contact involved, they disintegrated into utter discomfiture. They had always happily sidestepped it, content with simply clasping hands in situations of great joy or deep sorrow. Well, there was no getting around it now.

She slipped her arm gingerly into his and they took a few experimental steps. When it became apparent that this arrangement would work, they both relaxed somewhat. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant to walk so close together, and after the initial awkwardness faded away Mr. Carson caught himself enjoying having the excuse to touch her. Mrs. Hughes was too focused on preparing her speech in her head to notice how her body pressed against his on the narrow staircase or how he gave her gentle pat on the arm with his free hand. She was unusually nervous and was grateful to have him beside her, ever solid, her support.

She'd walked through the doors to drawing room on thousands of occasions in her time at Downton, so it was not surprising that this time she instinctively tried to scan it as she always had. She hadn't realized quite how automatic the impulse was. If she had been able to see, she would have moved her gaze, right to left, top to bottom throughout the entire space to ensure everything was in order. Now it was all she could do to remember where the furniture was located relative to where she thought she was standing.

A hush fell over the family as they entered, and Mrs. Hughes knew that her eyes must look quite unpleasant to garner such a reaction. She chose her words carefully, but endeavoured to speak quickly, explaining the situation as dryly as possible.

It was a remarkably short conversation, all told, and thoroughly strange from Mrs. Hughes's new perspective. It was difficult to speak to people when you weren't entirely sure where they were.

There had been soft noises of sympathy from the girls and kind words from her Ladyship. As Mrs. Hughes had expected, the offer to allow her to stay was extended, but she politely declined, citing her sister's anticipated care. Lord Grantham, who had remained silent through most of the conversation, deferring to his wife, offered his sincere apologies, which Mrs. Hughes managed to graciously accept.

When it was finished, Mr. Carson took her by the elbow and led her out. Hearing the doors shut behind her caused her to heave a great sigh of relief. It was getting easier to say out loud, but oddly, it didn't make it real. She had the language down, paraphrased from what Dr. Clarkson had told her, but her emotions beyond general anxiety were buried deeper. She would look for them later; at the moment she was exhausted.

"I want to go to bed," she whispered to him. "Would you take me to my room instead?"

"What about dinner?"

She made a face. Food was not appetizing; she just wanted to put her head down on her pillow. "Later," she grumbled, not really meaning it. He accepted her word and guided her upstairs to the servant's wing. They stopped abruptly in the hallway and Mrs. Hughes wasn't quite sure why.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat awkwardly. "Mrs. Hughes…the key."

Of course, the door to the women's side was locked. She felt around her hip for her keys and nimbly slipped them off their chain as she'd done countless times before. Instead of holding them out to him as he had expected her hands clenched around them, unable to let them go.

"Here," he murmured, sensing her reluctance to part with the most tangible aspect of her profession. "You needn't give them up just yet." Carefully, he manipulated her fingers to extend the correct key and he guided her hand to the lock. He steadied her wrist as she turned the key, gratified as the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Upon the threshold of her bedroom she let go of him. "I know my own room Mr. Carson, thank you." He hated to leave her, but she'd left no room for argument. She'd been brave today, he wished he had the courage to tell her that. Instead he gave her a pat on the arm that he hoped was supportive and not patronizing, and with great reluctance, he left her to her own devices.

Alone in her room she managed to find her nightgown without much difficulty. It always lived under her pillow, after all. Haphazardly, she slipped out of her clothing, not caring to unfasten each and every button, even though she was more than capable of doing so. She wanted the warm, safe feeling that would come with disappearing underneath her blankets and blocking out the world.

Sleep would not come, much as she wished it to. She supposed it was still early evening, but it felt like the day had already lasted an eternity. Yesterday seemed miles away. She pulled the blankets tighter around her trying to imagine the scene that was surely unfolding downstairs.

Mr. Carson, with all the gravitas that was due, would declare the he had an announcement to make. He would tell them what had happened, plainly and briefly, she hoped. She could see their faces in her mind's eye: Anna, shocked; Bates, stoic; Thomas, smirking.

Eventually she drifted off to an uneasy sleep only to be awakened several hours later by a knock.

"Mrs. Hughes? I've brought a tray."

It was Anna. When Mrs. Hughes blinked her eyes open, she was alarmed to find her world so much darker than when she'd gone to sleep. Anna pushed her way through the door and light spilled into the room from the hallway. It registered for Mrs. Hughes as a bright smear, and she realized that she had seen only darkness initially because it was dark outside. That was heartening; at least she still perceived something.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Anna set the tray on the side table. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." The housekeeper sat up slowly, trying to get her bearings. "Where…?"

"Here," said Anna, touching her lightly on the shoulder. "I've brought you supper."

"Mr. Carson's told you then?" It was an unnecessary platitude, since surely the girl would not have been sent up without being informed. Still, she'd like to hear that Mr. Carson had dealt with the issue as promised.

"He has," Anna confirmed. "Everyone was very sorry to hear it, Mrs. Hughes."

"I very much doubt everyone was sorry," remarked Mrs. Hughes bitterly, thinking in particular of Thomas.

"Actually," said Anna rather firmly, "we all were. You are well loved downstairs, Mrs. Hughes. Do not think for a moment that this changes that."

She was slightly taken aback by Anna's overly direct manner. "Thank you, Anna." She meant it. There had been no trace of pity in the maid's voice, and for that Mrs. Hughes was exceedingly grateful.

"You're welcome. Now, sit up and have something to eat."

Mrs. Hughes scooted up a little bit, allowing Anna to place the tray over her lap. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a meal in bed. Perhaps the last time she had been ill? She couldn't even remember when that was.

"Cauliflower, roasted potatoes, and ham tonight," Anna informed her pleasantly. It smelled good and Mrs. Hughes realized she was remarkably hungry. Mrs. Patmore's sandwich had been eons ago.

"Here's your fork," she said, placing utensil in the housekeeper's hand. Carefully, she guided her around the plate. "Ham at twelve o clock, cauliflower at five, and potatoes at eight. If you hold the far side of the plate with your other hand, it may be easier."

Anna seemed entirely unperturbed by the dramatic change in the housekeeper, taking the situation in stride. Her brisk, straightforward approach had come as something of a surprise, and it instilled a sense of calm and confidence in Mrs. Hughes. It struck her, not for the first time, that Anna would make a mighty fine housekeeper.

"You seem rather good at this," remarked Mrs. Hughes, fingering the plate with her free hand.

"My aunt was blind," said Anna mildly. "She lived with us when I was growing up."

"Oh."

"Go on, then," the maid urged. "You'll be fine."

Gingerly Mrs. Hughes poked at her plate, locating each of the dishes in turn and raising the fork to her mouth.

"It's easier than I thought," Mrs. Hughes observed after a few bites.

Anna laughed lightly, "you've been eating with a fork for several decades Mrs. Hughes, without looking or thinking about it, I'm sure."

Mrs. Hughes smiled despite herself. "That, and you cut the ham already. Is there any water?"

"Here," said Anna, handing her the glass. "Half full."

She drank deeply and felt the bed sink as Anna settled herself on the edge of it.

"It's strange to have you watch me eat," said Mrs. Hughes, carefully setting the glass down.

"Because I've never seen you eat before?" her tone was bright, chipper, almost teasing. It was so different from that of everyone else that day. Dr. Clarkson's grave diagnosis, Mrs. Patmore's frenzied reassurance, Mr. Carson's solemn advice. The words of her Ladyship and the girls had been dripping with pity, and Lord Grantham's painfully polite and apologetic. None of it had been much help.

"That's not what I meant," Mrs. Hughes protested, between bites of potato.

Anna's steadfast, lighthearted manner was reassuring, but simultaneously irksome. Didn't she understand how serious this was? What it meant for her? Her life would never be the same again. Didn't that warrant some sort of unhappy emotion? Anna wasn't stupid; she would know perfectly well what this meant for Mrs. Hughes.

"You don't seem particularly put out," Mrs. Hughes commented. "I suppose you think you're in for a promotion." The words had been sharp, sharper than she'd intended not to mention completely unnecessary. The maid's face darkened and she stiffened noticeably.

"I think no such thing Mrs. Hughes," said Anna crossly.

A wave of regret washed over her. Anna hadn't deserved that; especially not after the kindness she'd just shown her.

"Anna, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

She heard Anna sigh. "I know you didn't," Anna said softly.

"Forgive me…I'm just so…I don't know…" she was babbling, flustered, and miserable. Anna put a comforting hand on the older woman's shoulder.

"Mrs. Hughes, I assure you, it's forgotten," said Anna sincerely. "You've had a real shock. I understand."

"That's no excuse-"

"It's forgotten, Mrs. Hughes," Anna repeated. "And I assure you I am quite put out, but I thought you would have had enough of that today."

"And you would be right," said Mrs. Hughes despondently.

"Well, it is to be expected." Seeing that she was finished eating, Anna whisked the tray away, setting it on the nightstand. She could have left; there was plenty to do downstairs, but she thought she'd test the waters before she did. "Mr. Carson is quite upset. He didn't say as much, but I'm certain that he is."

Mrs. Hughes mumbled noncommittally. Thinking about him was surprisingly painful for her. The prospect of leaving him was not at all to her liking. In her private fantasies she'd let herself think that he might retire with her, that she would convince him to settle down somewhere on the estate, and they would walk off into the sunset together. Now, she supposed, it was silly, but it had been a comforting thought for so many years that she'd almost convinced herself it would be true.

Anna regarded the housekeeper carefully, saying nothing. Her reaction confirmed what she had suspected for a good long time. _Oh dear_, thought Anna, _something will have to be done about that._

But not tonight, and not by her. Anna gave the older woman a friendly squeeze on the shoulder and moved to collect the tray. "I'll leave you now, Mrs. Hughes. Sleep well."

"Good night, Anna." Mrs. Hughes sank back into her pillow, her daydreams of Charles Carson still taunting her. It wasn't to be, not now and not ever. It was time for her to accept that.

* * *

**TBC...**


	4. Hairpins

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

Waking brought confusion. Mrs. Hughes sat up and tried fruitlessly to rub the sleep from her eyes. It took her a good twenty seconds of trying to clear the blurs from her vision before she remembered and collapsed back onto the bed in dismay. A litany of curse words escaped her lips. Growing up on a farm had given her quite the vocabulary of both English and Gaelic swear words, though she almost never had occasion to use them. That morning marked a rare exception.

She lay there for a while trying to decide what she ought to do. She didn't know what time it was, but there was light from the direction of the window, so the sun must be up. There was no motivation to leave her bed, save for the growing pressure in her abdomen, which would have to be dealt with. She contemplated her options. She could stay in bed and hope that someone looked in on her before too long. She could brave the hallway alone, but the bathroom was at the far end of the corridor and she didn't fancy ending up lost, dressed in merely her nightgown. Where her housecoat had ended up was anyone's guess. That left a bedpan. There were several still around for emergencies, illness and the like. The house had seen its fair share of bedridden patients over the years, but Mrs. Hughes had never counted herself among them. Settling on this as being the least of three evils, she grudgingly got out of bed. Somewhere, in the bottom of her cupboard was what she needed.

Crawling on the floor and groping around for a chamber pot had not exactly been the dignified start to the day she'd wished. There were worse fates surely, though precious few sprang to mind. She shoved the offending vessel underneath the bed with a grumble and sat back against her nightstand. Now what?

Skimming her hands lightly across the floorboards, she explored the space she once thought she knew so well. Her fingers brushed over a tiny metal object and then another. Hairpins. She hadn't taken down her hair properly the night before, and a good number of them were probably scattered all over. Combing her fingers through the tangled knot at the back of her head yielded four more. She found an additional two on the floor and another two in her bed sheets. Ten. Not bad, really. She usually put it up with twelve, but she could make do with ten in a pinch.

She perched herself carefully on the edge of the bed and tucked the pins into her left hand, leaving her right hand free to pull the comb through. It wouldn't be as neat as usual, but it was something. Slowly she twisted up the strands into a simple braid and began pinning it back. It was tricky to hold the pins and place them at the same time, but the first one went in just fine. A second, a third. Mrs. Hughes would have grinned if she hadn't been so focused. As she placed the fourth one she felt a piece fall and instinctively brought her hand up to catch it. Unfortunately she'd misjudged how close to the headboard she was and banged her elbow painfully against it. She gave a cry of surprise and the pins went flying, making a chorus of heartbreaking clinking sounds as they hit the ground.

Exasperated she flopped onto her back and stared up at, presumably, the ceiling. It could have been the blooming Sistine Chapel for all she knew. Sod it. She was going back to bed.

Downstairs Mr. Carson was trying to resist the urge to send Anna up to check on her yet again. He'd already had asked several times only to be informed that she was still asleep. He heard the maid's telltale footsteps down the corridor and couldn't help himself.

"Anna?"

Anna turned wearily towards Mr. Carson and tried to keep her annoyance from showing. His fussing had been sweet at first, and Anna had privately smiled at the earnestness that had accompanied his asking after Mrs. Hughes. That was hours ago; now it was starting to become maddening. How did he expect her to get any work done?

"Mr. Carson," she began very politely, "did I not tell you that as soon as she wakes up I'll let you know? Her appointment isn't until this afternoon. We've plenty of time."

Yes, yes, he knew she wasn't to be at the hospital until after luncheon. He'd taken Dr. Clarkson's telephone call himself. Still, it bothered him no end that she might wake up and find herself alone, confined in her room until someone came along to help her.

"Perhaps you ought to wake her?" All of Mr. Carson's questions sounded like marching orders in that gruff tone of voice. Anna pursed her lips and bit back an impertinent reply. _You were the one that insisted she be left to sleep!_

"If you think it best," she said carefully.

"Well…" he mused. "Maybe it would be." He had no idea what would be best. He was guessing in the dark. His stern manner almost masked his underlying worry. Almost. Anna softened slightly. Poor man; he seemed rather betwixt and between this morning, like he couldn't figure out what to do with himself. He could hardly waltz into her bedroom and check as Anna could. Perhaps it was time he be put out of his misery.

"I'll go wake her," said Anna gently, "and I'll let you know how she is."

Mr. Carson tried to appear neutral, but there was a visible flicker of relief across his features. "Yes, thank you, Anna."

Only once she was up the stairs did Anna indulge herself with an exaggerated eye roll and a giggle. Those two. Honestly.

_Don't be smug_, she chastised herself. _Besides, it's none of your business_. Still, it tickled her that rigid Mr. Carson couldn't hide his concern for their beloved housekeeper. Romantic or not, his love for her was written all over his face. She wondered if he knew how obvious he was that morning. Come to that, she wondered if he knew he loved her at all. Anna grinned. As far as she could see, he certainly did.

Faced with Mrs. Hughes's bedroom door Anna sobered up some. It wasn't a laughing matter, what had transpired over the last twenty-four hours, and she wouldn't want Mrs. Hughes to think she thought it was.

Once again her knocks went unanswered. _Well, here goes nothing_, thought Anna resolutely. "Mrs. Hughes? Are you awake?"

She was, though pretending very hard not to be. If she were asleep, she could postpone dealing with her new reality, and that seemed preferable to her. Anna opened the curtains and watched as the glare of light caused Mrs. Hughes to wince and cover her face. She grumbled something incoherent and turned away from the window.

"Mrs. Hughes, I know you're awake."

Mrs. Hughes's voice was muffled by the bedcovers that she'd pulled over her head. "What's your point, dear?"

"It's time to get up."

"Do you give me orders now?"

Anna smiled. "I wouldn't dare. Just suggestions."

"Remarkably insistent suggestions," groused Mrs. Hughes, sitting up. "But I like your answer."

Well, she was in better humour than yesterday; at least she hadn't bitten the maid's head off just yet. Anna spotted the hairpins scattered on the floor and starting collecting them absently as she spoke. "Mrs. Patmore has elected to accompany you to the hospital today. Dr. Clarkson telephoned this morning; he says to come after lunch."

Mrs. Hughes frowned. "Can we spare Mrs. Patmore for the entire afternoon?"

"She says so. And I'd like to see you try and stop her."

Anna was right, that battle was already lost. Not that it was a battle she'd been keen to fight anyway. Mrs. Patmore, for all her fussing, was a great comfort to Mrs. Hughes and she was not about to object to her company.

"Now then," said Anna brightly. "What would you like to wear today?" As if she had endless possibilities. Yesterday's dress would be fine, once it had been shaken out after having spent a night on the floor.

Nevertheless, Anna's cheerful demeanor rubbed off on Mrs. Hughes and she almost didn't mind having to be helped into her clothing. After her earlier unsuccessful adventures in hairstyling, she was content to let Anna pin it up, just this once. Anna made pleasant little snippets of conversations that required minimal input from Mrs. Hughes, little more than a nod or a smile. When they'd finished, Anna looked her over from top to bottom and declared her "most certainly presentable." Mrs. Hughes thanked the maid for her kindness and gratefully took her outstretched arm.

When they'd reached the bedroom door Mrs. Hughes hesitated, uncertainty etched into every feature of her face. Anna took note and whispered confidently in the housekeeper's ear, "Everything will be all right, Mrs. Hughes. Don't worry."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, trying to be braver than she felt. It was time to face the day.

* * *

**TBC...**


	5. A Lesson or Two

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

"Ow!"

She'd bumped her shin, for what felt like the thousandth time, on one of the blasted boxes. She tightened her grip on the stick in her hand, wishing she could snap it across her knee as punishment for not warning her about the obstacle.

"You must go more slowly, Mrs. Hughes. You do yourself no favours by rushing." The nurse was a patient soul, but Mrs. Hughes was a trying subject. She was terribly impatient and stubbornly refused to lower her expectations of herself to a more reasonable level.

"This is as fast as a usually walk," Mrs. Hughes insisted. "You said I would be able to walk as fast as usual."

"_Eventually_, Mrs. Hughes, but not right away," the nurse said, thinking perhaps they'd underestimated how very quickly the housekeeper was used to walking.

"Rome was not built in a day, Mrs. Hughes," chimed in Mrs. Patmore from the edge of the lawn.

Mrs. Hughes rubbed her shins, exasperated. It had been a long afternoon, and she was quite fed up with what she saw as very slow progress. There had been endless exercises: how to walk, how to eat, how to get dressed - the list went on. She'd been through several nurses, each asking if she was too tired to carry on, and each time she'd insisted they continue. Eventually they figured out that she wasn't about to stop willingly and they'd better send her home before she ran herself into the ground.

"I think that's enough for today, Mrs. Hughes. You've done quite well."

"If you say so," said Mrs. Hughes flatly. Five year olds had more coordination than she; that didn't seem like 'doing very well' in her opinion.

"Don't you take that tone with them!" chided Mrs. Patmore to her left. "You have done well. Hasn't she?"

Mrs. Hughes could not help but feel like a child being scolded and praised in this fashion. The last time she checked she hadn't gone back in time fifty years. Why was everyone treating her like a little girl?

"As I said," agreed the nurse, "quite well, even if you don't believe, it Mrs. Hughes."

Perhaps her frustration was a little childish. She didn't feel like herself at all, and it was aggravating. Apparently, it showed. She tried to make amends, saying "thank you for your help Nurse Jennings. You are a most patient teacher."

"And it will be easier tomorrow and the day after that," the nurse assured her. "Try to use the cane as much as you can, and you'll be racing about in no time."

Mrs. Hughes forced a smile, "I'm sure you're right… Mrs. Patmore?"

"Here," said Mrs. Patmore, touching her elbow lightly. "We'd best be getting back or Mr. Carson will be out of his mind with worry."

"Mr. Carson has better things to do than worry about me."

Mrs. Patmore scoffed. "But he's worried regardless. You should have seen him this morning, fussing like a mother hen, asking after you every five minutes."

"Mrs. Patmore, really, you exaggerate," said Mrs. Hughes, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. The thought of him fussing over her made her more upset than just about everything else. What he must think of her now, a weak, helpless old woman? This malevolent thought swirled around in her head, preying on her insecurities and her fears. Even if she ever did learn to walk and eat and dress herself independently, it wouldn't matter. She would still be about as useful as a glass hammer, and he would think her very pitiful indeed.

Mrs. Patmore caught sight of her friend's face. "Now, I didn't mean to upset you. It's nice that he's concerned; that's all."

"Could we talk about something else?" Mrs. Hughes said, close to tears.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Patmore quickly. "What about?"

"Tell me…tell me about the weather. Or the scenery. Or anything."

"Right!" said Mrs. Patmore with great gusto, "I think it's going to rain, but you probably already knew that…"

* * *

Charles Caron lost his place in the wine ledger for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. His mind, normally so disciplined, would not focus on which bottles were to be set aside for this coming week. He checked his pocket watch, again. Two and a half minutes had passed since he'd checked it last. It had been like this all day, he felt all jumbled up inside. He'd barely spoken two words to her that morning, once she'd come downstairs. Nothing more than a cursory, 'How did you sleep?' and, 'Fine thank you, Mr. Carson,' before he'd been summoned upstairs and she'd been whisked away by Anna. She hadn't been present at lunch, and he was so busy trying to sort the maids out he hadn't had time to investigate. He'd meant to see her off, but was informed that he'd just missed her. 'Some friend I am,' he'd grumbled to himself. He would make a point of seeing her this evening. That would require him to finish his work now, so with newfound resolve he bent over the book.

His ears perked when he heard the servant's door bang shut. That had to be them, shuffling down the corridor. He checked his watch yet again. Five hours gone; they must be exhausted.

Mr. Barrow watched their slow progress from the end of the hall. "Blimey, cane and everything. She really is blind as a bat," he observed. "Absolutely useless."

Mrs. Patmore gasped, and Mrs. Hughes whipped her head up at the under-butler. Mr. Barrow blanched. He had not truly thought they would hear him. Something inside Mrs. Hughes snapped. "My ears work just fine, thank you, Thomas," she said scathingly.

Mr. Barrow opened his mouth and closed it again as the housekeeper took a menacing step towards him. Her anger was not to be ignored, nor interrupted.

"And I'll tell you something else. You make one more snide comment about my cane, and blind or not, I'll beat you senseless with it. Understand me?"

There was a deafening silence in the hallway. Mrs. Patmore looked torn between shock and delight. Mr. Carson stood frozen in his doorway, angrier with Mr. Barrow than he'd ever been, and more pleased with Mrs. Hughes than he could ever say.

Then, very quietly, came Mr. Barrow's reply. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good," she spat.

Mrs. Patmore locked eyes with Mr. Carson, who raised his eyebrows at her and opened the door to his pantry a little wider.

"This way, Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore coaxed, leading her towards Mr. Carson. The cook leaned in and with a low voice whispered in the housekeepers ear, "before you make Thomas wet himself."

Mrs. Hughes did not acknowledge the joke, her scowl set in stone. The woman's piercing glare may have been gone, but her capacity to inspire fear had not been diminished in the slightest.

Mr. Carson felt a surge of pride. That was his Elsie Hughes, not about to take any of this lying down. He ushered them inside, anxious enough to hear about their day to postpone dealing with Mr. Barrow. For now.

The door to the pantry shut firmly behind them, and her mask crumbled, slipping through her fingers like sand. Thomas was right. No matter what she said, he was right. Useless. Worthless. Broken. Mrs. Hughes tried and failed to suppress a sob and Mr. Carson looked at her in utter bewilderment.

"Mrs. Hughes-" his warm voice was her undoing. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she burst into tears.

"Oh for heav'n sakes!" she exclaimed, fed up with herself. Every tear she wiped away was replaced by two more. She could feel Mr. Carson's gaze upon her and her cheeks burned. This was precisely what she didn't want: his seeing her like this, his eyes surely filled with pity and disappointment. She tried hard to push her emotions away, but she was just so tired and there was no energy left. Her knees went weak and the cane slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor.

He caught her. Not that she was in any real danger of falling, but he caught her nonetheless in great, strong arms that encircled her waist and pulled her sobbing form to him. It was something he'd wanted to do since this entire miserable business began and he wasn't going to let the opportunity slip by now. He owed her that. With a passion and a possessiveness that shocked all three of them he crushed her to his chest, trying as best he knew how to give her some sort of comfort.

Mrs. Patmore could hardly contain her surprise at the butler's impassioned gesture. She mumbled some nonsense about fetching a cup of tea for them and made herself scarce. Evidently, Mr. Carson had the situation under control.

He'd spent so many years barely touching her that hugging her tightly felt surreal. He could throttle Thomas. How dare he make her feel this way? But it wasn't just Thomas that had brought her to weeping uncontrollably, was it? It was all of it. Just all of it.

She was hitting him. It started so gently he didn't recognize it at first, but it escalated until she was beating her fists against his chest as she implored him in no uncertain terms to let go of her. He jumped back, confused and horrified that he might have frightened her. What had he been thinking? He'd overstepped, hadn't he? He'd thought he was helping, but now he wasn't sure. She seemed as upset as ever and thoroughly cross.

Mrs. Hughes stumbled backwards and struggled to find her footing again. He ached to reach out and steady her, but after her protests he dare not. She looked small and fragile, but oh so very determined. "Charles Carson," she choked out. Whether her words were hampered more by anger or upset he could not tell. "I'll not have you pitying me, I cannot bear it!"

Is that what she thought? That he PITIED her? He felt dreadful for her, certainly. He was furious on her behalf, there was no doubt. But pity? Elsie Hughes could never be the recipient of pity, not from him.

But there she was, backed into the corner of the room like a wounded animal, practically hissing at him.

"Elsie Hughes," he said softly, "you have never been more wrong in your entire life."

Pity. He was almost insulted. As if he could pity the most resilient person he'd ever met.

"There has never been anyone less pitiful than you," he insisted, taking a cautious step towards her.

"You cannot mean that," she sniffed.

"I do. I could never pity you." He said it so warmly and so seriously she didn't have any choice but to believe him. He'd just wanted her to stop crying. It broke his heart when she cried. "I only meant to be comforting. Isn't that what friends do?"

"Yes," she said, almost to herself, "yes, that's what friends do." She bit her lip in an effort to hold back more tears. Not pity then, but genuine heartbreak for her. She was touched at his sentiment and suddenly longed for him to hold her again.

"I am on your side," he reminded her gently, "if you'll allow me to be."

She nodded, more tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She reached out for him and in an instant he was there, wrapping his arms warmly around her.

Eventually, they sank into a chair, and he shifted her onto his lap, as she cried into his chest. He rocked her back and forth gently, saying nothing. It struck him that this was beyond unacceptable, him holding her like this. All propriety had dissolved in the face of her tears, and he was surprised to discover that he didn't care. She needed someone, and he felt an unprecedented compulsion to be that person. If today had taught him anything, it was that he wasn't content to sit back and let Mrs. Patmore and Anna handle all of it, even if they were willing to do so. She was his responsibility somehow, her happiness his job. When had that happened?

It didn't matter; they were there now, and there they would stay. As her tears ran their course she pressed her ear to his chest, comforted by his steady heartbeat and his hands resting on her back. Not pity, then. Not pity.

Some time later, when they had not yet shown up for dinner, Mrs. Patmore took it upon herself to put a few things on a tray and look in. She found Mrs. Hughes curled up on his lap, fast asleep. Mr. Carson brought a finger to his lips, urging the cook to set their supper down quietly. Mrs. Patmore complied, putting the tray down at arms reach and silently tiptoeing out of the room. Gently, she closed the door and chuckled triumphantly to herself.

"Well, I never!"

* * *

**TBC...**


	6. Temporary At Best

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

Over the next few days, some semblance of a routine was established. Mrs. Hughes had taken to sleeping late, a luxury she snatched as poor payment for the hand she had been dealt. She ate breakfast alone in her room, tea and toast mostly, doing her best not to get crumbs in her bed sheets. Afterwards she tried to help Anna where she could, as most of her work had fallen to her and Mr. Carson. There was no word on her replacement, though rumour had it Mrs. Bute would be up from London to smooth things over. Mrs. Hughes had remarkably little feeling on the subject. This was more likely a result of repressed emotions than one of true acceptance.

After luncheon, which she patently refused to eat with the staff, she went down to the hospital to meet with the nurses or perhaps Dr. Clarkson. She did get better at walking, though not so fast as she would have liked. She learned all manner of things, like how to pour water without overfilling her cup and how to navigate rooms she didn't know. She acquired many more bruises on her shins, but with them had come a renewed mobility that pleased her greatly. The nurses were kind and rather well practiced at this kind of rehabilitation after the war. After her third visit, Dr. Clarkson stopped bothering to check her vision, as there was so little of it left to assess, and the bright lights only made her eyes hurt. There would be no going back to seeing shapes again, for the edges of everything were gone, leaving only patches of light and shadow.

Since she refused to take meals with the others, Mr. Carson insisted on taking his dinner with her, after the servants were finished. She complained that she was being a nuisance to him and that it was a waste of his time siting through two suppers, to which he gave her such a stern talking to about his "right to spend his time as he saw fit" and "doing what friends ought to do" that she hastily (and happily) withdrew her objections. His company was a joy to her and after her tearful first few nights they had made a decided effort to steer clear of any uncomfortable subjects. She was grateful for it, as it made their evenings together a warm happy thought to fixate on during the more trying moments of the day.

And trying moments were plentiful. That afternoon she spent trying, and failing, to remember where on God's green earth she'd put the blasted cleaning rota. Somewhere in her sitting room, there was a thick red book containing the schedule that dictated the cleaning of every room in the Abbey. When Anna had not found it where Mrs. Hughes thought she'd left it, they'd spent some thirty minutes (that Anna _didn't have_) trying to locate it.

"Here!" cried Anna triumphantly, "it had fallen behind the shelf!"

Mrs. Hughes gave an exasperated sigh and leaned back into her chair. "Why it was on that shelf in the first place I will never know."

"Never mind, Mrs. Hughes," said Anna, flipping through the large volume. "What was it you wanted to show me?"

"I don't know why we're bothering with this, as you're just going to have to explain all of this to the poor soul who comes to replace me anyways. Really Anna, they'll just have to make you the housekeeper and be done with it."

Anna laughed merrily, "They will not. I'm too young by a half, not to mention too…" Anna trailed off somewhat awkwardly, having said about four words too many.

Mrs. Hughes cocked her head suspiciously towards the young maid. "Anna, come here," she commanded. Anna approached, feeling very much like she'd been caught out.

When she'd come closer, Mrs. Hughes reached for the girl's arm. Clasping it gently, she endeavored to phrase her question as delicately as possible. "You're not…well…you haven't something to tell me?"

"I don't know," Anna said breathlessly. "Maybe. It's too soon for the doctor to tell, but…maybe." Mrs. Hughes heard the delight that accompanied this hurried, excitable statement and broke into a wide smile.

"Anna, that's the most wonderful news I've heard in a long time."

"It's not wonderful news just yet, Mrs. Hughes," laughed Anna nervously.

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "But it will be wonderful when it comes, my dear. And it will come."

"Yes," said Anna bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of her feet, "I pray it does. You won't say anything? I want to be sure before I get Mr. Bates's hopes up."

"Nary a word," agreed Mrs. Hughes. Her mind flitted into the future, visions of Anna as mother, rocking a babe in her arms. It was fitting - perfect, really. Mrs. Hughes felt a sharp pang when she realized that she would likely be miles away when Anna's child was born. There was so much that she would miss by leaving, so much beyond work. She'd spent almost two decades of her life at Downton; it was natural that she had become tangled up in the lives of the people there. Anna's news made it impossible to pretend otherwise.

Anna perceived the distinct shift in the atmosphere, and she had a fairly good idea why. "You will come and visit the baby, Mrs. Hughes? If there is one?"

"Of course I will," said Mrs. Hughes thickly, "I'm sure we'll manage it. Somehow." She drew a deep breath, summoning back the cool professionalism she'd cultivated over the years. "Now, find the pages marked last month. That will tell you the last time the windows in the East wing were washed…"

* * *

He spent his days thinking about her, even when he should have been focused on other things. It didn't seem to matter what he was doing. She always made an appearance. Distributing the post. Mrs. Hughes. Inspecting the tea service. Mrs. Hughes. Polishing the silver. Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes.

Seeing her in such difficulty shed a new light on her, one he hadn't seen before. There was a vulnerability about her now that he had before never been privy to, in fact one that he hadn't believed her capable of. It wasn't the tears, for he had seen her cry before. Over the years their grief had coincided on occasion, but she had never openly needed him, not like this. Her personal grief she kept locked away. She'd never told him about her health…scare. He still shuddered to think of it. He'd heard about her mother's death second-hand from Mrs. Patmore some six months after the fact. Granted, it had been more than a decade ago and he had been in London with the family for the Season when it happened, but she had deliberately neglected to mention it in her letters. He'd never confronted her about that either.

Over the past few days she'd been building walls, isolating herself from the staff as much as she could. He didn't blame her, but he didn't like it. At least when they were alone, she could be somewhat honest with him. But not too honest… Their last few meals together had been purposely lighthearted. He filled her in on the household news and told silly tales from his time in London. She'd poked fun about her lessons that afternoon at the hospital and regaled him with stories of her youth when she'd been a farm girl. It was comfortable, easy, and a lie. They were dancing around the reality staring them in face, happier to push their feelings to the side, unexamined. Both of them were guilty of it and, after almost two decades, both very well practiced. They could dance around it all they liked, but they had to know the music was going to stop very soon.

* * *

**TBC...**


	7. Night

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

It had been a week since … since what? Since 'it' happened. She didn't even know what to call it. There was still no word from Lorna, and Mrs. Hughes was starting to worry that her sister's letter had been lost. Perhaps she would write again, if there weren't anything in the evening post. She couldn't imagine what was taking the time. It was not the kind of matter one sat on for long.

She was stuck on a thought again. It was happening on a regular basis now, whenever she was alone with nothing explicit to do. Her boredom resulted in her spending much longer thinking on subjects she normally wouldn't pay much mind to. Mostly worrying. That was hardly surprising.

Her stomach rumbled, momentarily distracting her from her sister's wayward letter. Mr. Carson would be there any minute bearing their supper. She strained her ears and was gratified to hear the familiar footsteps in the hall that she knew to be his. A mere moment later her door swung open.

"Beef stew, courtesy of Mrs. Patmore," he announced with all the grandeur that usually accompanied his introducing distinguished guests upstairs.

"Stew again?" she asked, furrowing her brow in suspicion. This was the third supper of it in a row - most unusual.

"Don't think that Mrs. Patmore is accommodating you," said Mr. Carson innocently. "I assure you it's a happy coincidence." He made a point of carefully setting out their plates with excessive formality.

"See that she isn't," replied Mrs. Hughes darkly, thoroughly unconvinced by his performance. She was more than capable of eating whatever they put in front of her, even if stew was easier than most dishes.

"Would it be so bad if she was?" asked Mr. Carson.

"Yes!" she shot back emphatically. "You two have been babying me enough as it is."

"Babying?" replied Mr. Carson incredulously. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," said Mrs. Hughes, tucking into her supper.

"I'm afraid I don't, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, racking his brain for any action over the past week that could be taken as evidence of 'babying.'

"So you had nothing to do with the car being arranged to _drive_ me to the hospital this afternoon when I am perfectly capable of walking? And you've no idea who might be making up my bed for me each day? And you certainly aren't the person responsible for the endless cups of tea that magically appear wherever I am? Shall I go on Mr. Carson?"

"Daisy brings the tea," he pointed out. He'd directed the assistant cook in precisely how Mrs. Hughes liked her tea and instructed her to send her a tray at regular intervals. Daisy had taken the command to heart and done exactly that.

"At your request."

There was a beat. "Yes," he admitted, "but you can hardly fault us for it. You never ask for what you need Mrs. Hughes. You leave us to guess." He was defensive, and he had a point. She didn't let them help her, not half so much as they would have liked to. He chalked it up to stubbornness, and her difficulty in accepting her situation, but he was not about to take any talking down to on the matter.

"That's another thing," she said, deftly changing the subject. "You must stop calling me Mrs. Hughes. I'm not the housekeeper anymore so I suppose your options are Miss Hughes or - and I would prefer greatly prefer this - Elsie."

"I don't see why I should," said Mr. Carson firmly. "You haven't been replaced yet."

"But I've been officially relieved of my post, Mr. Carson," she sighed, "which is more than enough reason. You of all people should know that."

"It's not right," he said, more to himself than to her. "You are Mrs. Hughes, and that's all there is to it."

"Elsie," she corrected firmly. "Mrs. Hughes is gone, Mr. Carson. You must accept that just as I must." Her voice was cold. Detached. Unfeeling. It aggravated him, but he wasn't entirely sure why.

"You speak as if she's died," he said shortly.

"Hasn't she? In a way?" She had been Mrs. Hughes for so long, but with every day that passed she felt less and less like her. She'd been stripped of her position, her responsibilities, her authority; even her keys were now in Anna's tender care. Her name did not seem to fit anymore. Somewhere, buried deep, there was a woman named Elsie. A woman she needed to be reacquainted with.

"I don't think-" he began gruffly.

"Please, Mr. Carson," she said, smoothly interrupting him. "It would be a great help to me if you did."

He considered her for a moment. Seven days and he still tried to search her eyes for hints of expression, when he knew he'd find none there. The blood that had alarmed him so much that first day had disappeared, leaving them clear, almost normal-looking. They were the same vibrant hue as always, one that reminded him of a sky at twilight, but they distinctly lacked something. They would not sparkle when she teased him, nor flash when she was angry. They were still pretty, but with a flat, emotionless quality that he found distressing. He'd relied on her eyes to tell him how she'd felt when her words didn't. Now, he had to rely on the subtle changes in her inflection or how the corners of her mouth twitched, to see that she was pleading with him to accept her request.

"Alright," he conceded graciously, "but I have one condition. I'll not have this be one-sided; you'll call me Charles."

"But-"

"Elsie." Her name rolled off his tongue with surprising ease and it effectively silenced her protests. "That is my condition."

"You are still the butler," she pointed out. "It would be convention to call you Mr. Carson."

"As you insist, you are not the housekeeper, so there is no obligation there. You are my friend – Elsie – and the convention for that is to call me what I wish."

She smiled. He spoke forcefully, but his voice was laced with a kindness that produced a striking image in her mind. She could just see him, mouth barely containing the smile his eyes betrayed, while he put on an air of seriousness that underscored his sincerity.

"What is it?" he said, feeling like he'd been left out of a joke.

"It's just…I see you," she said, delighted. "Charles," she added for good measure.

"Literally?!" he exclaimed, thunderstruck.

She laughed, a great peal of laughter, at his surprise. Poor man. How she had confused him! "No, no. Not literally. But very clearly in my mind nevertheless."

"Ah." He beamed to see her laughing so freely; there was something about her laughter that made his heart soar.

The meal was over and she carefully folded her napkin back up. "I have a favour to ask you."

"Oh?"

She stood slowly and Mr. Carson rose to offer his assistance, even though he didn't know where she was going. She heard his chair scrape against the floor and waved her hands dismissively at him. "Not babying, my eye," she remarked, swatting him away. "When I need something from you, I'll ask."

"But you don't like to ask. If I offer, you don't have to."

She froze mid-step. "Wait a minute. You've been fawning over my well-being all week …because you want to save me the difficulty of ASKING?"

"This is the first time that you put that together?" he asked, equally surprised. "I thought that was obvious."

Goodness. She hadn't thought of that at all. "I just thought you were set on driving me round the bend," she said incredulously, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. All of her irritation at his maddening behavior vanished, replaced with shock at how sweet he'd been.

"Really, Mrs. Hughes, you give me no credit at all." She couldn't tell from his inflection if he were genuinely hurt or continuing the teasing she'd started. She frowned, trying to puzzle out his emotions. Come to think of it, perhaps it was a little bit of both.

"You wanted a favour," he prompted her gently.

Mrs. Hughes straightened up a little. "Yes, yes, I did." She made her way to her desk, running her hands across the edge, locating each corner in turn. "I put them here somewhere…"

Mr. Carson watched her curiously, trying to figure out what she might be looking for and to resist the urge just to ask her outright. Her hands settled on a couple of books, and she seized them triumphantly. "Here they are," she said, turning back toward him. "Oh blast, where's my chair again?"

Happy finally to be of use, he took the opportunity to guide her back into her seat. He touched her all the time now, in little ways like this, but his heart still skipped a beat every time they made contact. She'd taken to grasping his arm, even if his sleeve would have sufficed, because she liked the steady feeling it gave her.

When she'd sat down, she held the books aloft to him, "I need you to return these for me." They were two volumes that she had evidently borrowed from his Lordship's library. _The Mill on the Floss,_ which he knew for a fact she had only just finished, and _Songs of Innocence and of Experience_, which had her bookmark poking out about half way through. "Obviously, I will not be needing them anymore," she remarked dryly.

She had tried to keep her manner lighthearted, but she didn't fool him. He caught her bottom lip tremble as he took the books from her hands, his fingers gently brushing hers as he did so.

"Elsie?" She'd turned away from him, trying to compose herself. She felt silly, to be so emotional asking him simply to return a few books. It bothered her, a great deal more than it should have, that she hadn't finished the last one. Mrs. Hughes made a point of always finishing a book, even if it was dreadful. No matter how poor the prose or convoluted the storyline, she had a stubborn determination to finish what she had started. This way, even if she looked back on it in disappointment, she would pass her judgment on it knowing all the facts. On occasion a book would surprise her, drawing her in as she read more and rewarding her in the end for not giving up on it. She re-read her favourites repeatedly, the characters on the page like old friends to her. It pained her greatly to think she would not have the pleasure of spending time with them ever again.

Mr. Carson, keenly sensing the great loss he had just witnessed, reached for her hand. His kind touch made it harder, not easier to pretend she wasn't upset.

"Elsie?" he ventured again.

She exhaled sharply. "It's a stupid thing really…" she hurriedly wiped away a stray tear that escaped, "but not reading... I think that might be the worst thing about all this, silly as that is."

"It's not silly," he returned. They had spent many evenings discussing books, and he'd always found her commentary entertaining and insightful in equal measure. It was one of the first things he'd ever learned about her when she'd come to Downton – the head housemaid with a taste for novels, and plenty of opinions to go along with them. He'd delighted in a friend who shared his enthusiasm for literature, and while he might not share her love of the Brontë sisters, their tastes otherwise overlapped quite a bit.

His eyes fell on the bookmark tucked into the book of poems by William Blake. "I didn't realize you enjoyed poetry so much," he remarked, trying to engage her again.

She shrugged. "Sometimes. I thought I'd give him a chance. I like his style, even if he's probably a little too radical for your tastes."

"Don't be so hasty," he frowned, opening the volume. "Perhaps I've yet to make up my mind."

"A lie if I ever heard one, Charles Carson. Any poet so hostile to the Church of England will never hold much of your respect."

She was right; naturally, Mr. Carson did not care for Mr. Blake's view on a good many things. He hadn't thought her so different from him in this regard. "But he holds yours?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"I was only half-way through this lot," she said evenly, referring to the volume in his hands, "but I certainly respect his command of the English language. And his etched illustration."

"Certainly," agreed Mr. Carson, examining the book more closely. Each poem was surrounded by beautiful and intricate drawings. This was a fine book and he could see why she'd been taken with it.

"The point is moot now," she said forlornly. "Would you just promise to put them back for me please?"

"I will," he said, squeezing her hand, "but your opinions are not moot, thank you very much."

She smiled at his gentle insistence. Even if he disagreed, he valued her thoughts and she treasured that. She squeezed his hand back, a thank you of sorts.

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?" he asked, hoping she would agree.

"Yes, I should like that very much, Mr. Car-… Charles." It still felt strange, but very pleasant, to say his name. "I should like that very much, Charles."

He moved his chair as close to hers as possible, making it easier for him to hold her hand and prop the book open at the same time. She caught a whiff of his pomade as he bent his head closer to hers and her breath caught slightly at the nearness of him. She gripped his hand tighter and wondered where on earth the fluttery feeling in her stomach had come from.

He spoke in low, hushed tones, as if the words were a secret for only her to hear. "The sun descending in the West, the evening star does shine…"

She lost herself in his voice, the deep rumbling sound transporting her to a happier plane of existence. Her mind was filled with visions of heaven and earth painted masterfully by his powerful, understated delivery. With each stanza she slipped further and further under the spell he weaved, a special magic just for her. When he finished, there was a long silence, neither of them willing, nor able, to speak. He studied her face, in greater detail than he'd ever been able to before, drinking in her blissful expression. He wanted to hold on to this feeling forever.

She tilted her head up at him and he found that she was ever so close. Far too close. Did she know that? She must. Surely she must have felt his breath on her face or smelled the scent of his aftershave, but she leaned in anyways. His hand cupped her cheek, and when she didn't pull away he found the temptation impossible to resist. Painstakingly slowly, he lowered his lips towards hers.

A sharp rap on the door shattered the silence, and he jumped away from her in surprise. The spell had been broken, leaving him feeling dazed. Mechanically, he moved towards the door, flinging it open with uncharacteristic vigour. "What is it?" he demanded.

Jimmy looked rather taken aback at being addressed in such a gruff fashion. "Post for Mrs. Hughes," he said nervously, holding it out as a barrier between himself and the ill-tempered butler. "You did say to inform you immediately of anything with a return address of-"

"Yes, thank you, Jimmy," said Mr. Carson, cutting off the boy when he spotted the letter in his hands. Jimmy relinquished the letter and darted off as quickly as he dared.

He turned back into the room to find her sitting rather stiffly in her chair, her blissful expression replaced with a worried frown. Oh, dear. What had he done? What had they done? Well…almost done. His mouth felt very dry and he didn't know what to say to her. This whole evening was so emotional and unprecedented; it made him feel very overwhelmed. He longed for her guidance. "Elsie…what ... what would you like me to do?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Well," she said calmly, her voice betraying nothing of the emotions roiling inside, "I suggest you open it."

* * *

**TBC...**


	8. The Letter

**Thank you so much to everyone that has reviewed this story so far – you make my days much brighter. Before we move on, I have a friendly request: this story is S5 spoiler free, so if you could keep your ****_reviews_**** spoiler free as well for anyone reading along that hasn't had s5 air for them yet, that would be nice. If you would like to fangirl with me over S5 Chelsie, do PM me. I never tire of talking about them…**

**My thanks to chelsie fan, beta extraordinaire. And now...the letter we've all been waiting for. **

* * *

Mr. Carson regarded the ill-timed letter with grave mistrust. He had longed for it to come, knowing that it worried Mrs. Hughes more each time the post failed to produce it, but he feared its contents. They had not discussed her leaving. It was silently agreed to be too painful a subject. Of course they couldn't go on as they had this past week forever. A better arrangement had to be made.

It took great effort for him to hold the letter opener steady, but years of practice hid his nerves. With much trepidation he pulled the letter from its envelope.

"Well?" said Mrs. Hughes. "It is from Lorna; isn't it?"

"No…" he said, double-checking the envelope. "The address is right, but it's from…Douglas?"

Mrs. Hughes adopted a worried expression. Her sister's husband didn't write her with any great frequency and rarely because he had good news. "Well, what does it say?" she asked as patiently as she could manage.

"One moment." He tried to read it over quickly, but the handwriting was scrawled and difficult to decipher at any speed.

"Would you stop reading it to yourself and start reading it to me?" she demanded, her anxiety beginning to show.

"Right. Sorry." Mr. Carson cleared his throat and forced himself to focus. "'Dear Elsie, I was sorry to hear of your eyesight and know this must be a very difficult time for you. Unfortunately, your suggestion of joining us on the farm is not possible, as it has just been sold. It, and a good many other things, have become too much to manage, so Lorna and I have elected to move into a small rooming house in town. I will not go into details here, but suffice to say that the chickens have had enough and so have I.'"

Here Mr. Carson paused, looking at her inquisitively. She looked rather pained, and clearly the cryptic words meant more to her than they did to him. "Elsie, what does that mean?"

"Keep going," she said shortly, having no desire to answer his question.

Mr. Carson did as he was told. "'Before you worry, I'll not be going back on my promise to you anytime soon.'" More enigmatic sentences he didn't understand. Mrs. Hughes tapped her toe impatiently, and he hurried onwards. "'But I'm sorry to say that I cannot offer you a home now. I know you understand that I write these painful words in your best interest, and in Lorna's. She has read your letter, though I do not think she truly understands. Nor will she, until she sees you in person.'"

Mr. Carson had reached the bottom of the page and he looked at her in confusion. "Elsie, do you know what he means?"

"Yes," she said monotonously, "it means Lorna is worse and I haven't been home to see it." Her bitterness at her own neglect of her sister overshadowed the surprise that she wouldn't be going to live with them.

"She's ill?" Mr. Carson couldn't believe she would keep such news from him. He knew they were close, and they wrote each other religiously, even if she rarely visited. She would have had time off in a heartbeat to care for her sister, if she'd asked.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "Lorna is a little bit…" she fished for the right word, "absent."

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Hughes folded her hands carefully in her lap. "I mean, she's always been a distracted person. Even as a child she never was capable of keeping her mind on anything for a reasonable length of time. But lately…well… it's become more pronounced in the last few years. Much more pronounced. Occasionally Douglas writes me about it, but I didn't think it was quite so…much for him I suppose."

"And the chickens?"

"A long story. The short version is that a last year she got confused and fed them dried beans. Almost killed the lot of them. That's when we knew she wasn't quite herself anymore." She deliberately left out the part about how Lorna had tried to sleep in the hen house that night, and many nights after, thinking it was her bedroom. This was her family she was speaking of, and she wished to preserve some of their dignity. Poor Douglas must have his hands quite full. He loved Lorna with all his heart and had promised his undying devotion to her, no matter what. Douglas and Mrs. Hughes did not see eye to eye on several things, but she respected his fidelity, and that was enough.

Mrs. Hughes sighed, feeling more than a little guilty. From Yorkshire it had been easy to pretend everything was fine, and Douglas had reassured her in his last letter two months ago that it wasn't too serious. Words were easily twisted to make everything appear rosy, but the fact that they were giving up the farm spoke volumes. Mr. Carson watched her carefully, unsure of how he felt about the situation.

She bit her lip. Without Lorna and Douglas, she didn't know what she was to do. "Is that all?" she asked. "Does he say anything else?"

"There's another page here," he said, pulling it free. She twisted her hands together, anxious for him to continue.

"Go on then."

Mr. Carson cleared his throat. "He says: 'You are dear to us both, and we will not abandon you in such a time of need. Lorna tells me you will not remember your cousin Martha, but she and her husband David have a farm some eight miles from Blackpool. They have agreed to take you in, and it would be close enough that we might visit. I've arranged to have them meet you off the two o' clock train to Blackpool on Monday, if you can manage it. They'll know you and what to do. I've enclosed their address, and we'll try to come and see you when you've settled in. I'm sure you'll find them agreeable people and come to like them very much in due time. I wish you a safe journey, Elsie. Until we see each other again, Douglas.'"

The room suddenly felt very cold. Monday was the day after tomorrow. Could she really be leaving that soon? It didn't seem possible, but there it was in lopsided black and white letters. Mr. Carson opened his mouth to speak, but no words came to him.

Mrs. Hughes gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white under the strain. "Well," she said primly, "that's settled."

She couldn't be serious; she didn't even know these people! He managed to find his voice again, "Elsie…surely there must be some other-"

She stood abruptly. "I should go up. Best get to sleep if I'm to get all my packing done tomorrow."

"Elsie," he protested.

She ignored him completely. "I'll tell Anna. I'm sure you won't mind if she assists me," she said stiffly, moving towards the door.

"Elsie!" He blocked her path, forcing her to stop short to avoid running headlong into him. Her posture had become rigid, all angles and hard lines. There was no trace of the soft, blissful woman that he had come so close to kissing. If it weren't for Jimmy and that blasted letter!

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she said firmly, returning back to the formalities they'd employed their whole lives. It was a necessary distinction. Mr. Carson was a known quantity. Mr. Carson was her steadfast friend, a man of rules and decorum and an absolute sense of place. With Mr. Carson she knew she stood on solid ground, but Charles…Charles had made her feel fluttery and reckless. With Charles, her emotions got the better of her and she had almost forgotten herself. If it weren't for Jimmy and that providential letter, she might have given in completely to his charms, and there would have been no recovery from that.

He put a hand on her forearm, pleading with her to stay with him, to talk to him. She recoiled from his touch, and a sharp pang of hurt resonated through his chest. She pushed past him, knowing full well that she'd wounded him, but unable to see anyway around it. He could hurt a little now from her iciness, or infinitely more in the years to come if they crossed that sacred line when nothing could come of it. She would spare him that. She owed him that.

He turned to watch her as she stumbled up the stairs far too quickly for a woman who couldn't make them out. Her cane knocked loudly against each one, but miraculously she did not fall. He longed to follow her, but she had made herself clear. She wanted nothing more to do with him tonight. Possibly ever. No, he could not think like that. She was upset and overwhelmed; that was all. Their near miss had sent them both reeling off-kilter, to say nothing of her brother-in-law's letter.

Mr. Carson noticed the letter, still clenched in his left hand and fought the overwhelming urge to tear it up. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, and he forced himself back into her sitting room to calm down. Everything in the room was her: the sturdy oak desk she'd spent her life at, the ledgers filled with her handwriting, the table linens she'd sewn and adorned the table with. Even the clock on the wall reminded him of her, its steady, reliable ticking measuring the each passing second.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was her face leaning towards his. Had it all been in his head? Perhaps she didn't know how close they'd come. It was hard for him to imagine life from her new perspective; perhaps she'd been oblivious to him. Perhaps she hadn't been, and now she was furious with him. Perhaps any number of things. The more he thought the less sure he was of anything.

He tucked the letter back into its envelope cautiously, as if it might spontaneously combust and burn him at any moment. He felt oddly cheated. This was to be their fate? The end of the line for them? For her to disappear to a farm outside of Blackpool with cousins she'd never met to live out her days? And for him to carry on running Downton without her, until he dropped dead? There would be other housekeepers, excellent ones even, but he knew none of them would ever replace her. She was different. She was special. He'd known that for years in truth, even if he didn't like to dwell on it too much. Since her health scare, she'd become more open, teasing him, flirting even. She'd never pushed too far, always knowing when to ease off, but he'd enjoyed her attentions. They'd been light, carefree, with hints of a promise that one-day…just maybe…

But one day was not coming. She'd made that clear when she'd fled his company that evening. He didn't have the right to feel as disappointed as he did, for they had made no agreement. They'd said no words at all, really, about the future. He'd just always assumed that he would be in hers and she in his.

Damn and blast that woman. She had crept so carefully and so completely into his heart that he'd hardly noticed it happening. Now that she was there, he had no idea how to let her go.

* * *

**TBC…**


	9. Mrs Patmore's Advice

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Mrs. Patmore's voice came from behind the bedroom door that Mrs. Hughes had resisted the urge to slam when she'd fled upstairs. Mrs. Patmore had volunteered to check in on her that evening, after Mr. Carson had broken the news about the housekeeper's imminent departure. Mr. Carson had welcomed the suggestion. If anyone might be able get through to her, it was the blunt, fiery cook.

"Come in, Mrs. Patmore." She'd been lying semi-prone on her bed, but felt obligated to sit up in the presence of company.

Mrs. Patmore entered, bringing with her the vague smell of beef stew and burnt biscuits. There had been no biscuits with dinner. Mrs. Hughes now had a fairly good idea as to why.

"I haven't brought anything, but I could get us a cup of tea if you'd like?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "No, thank you. But do have a seat."

Mrs. Hughes heard the door click, Mrs. Patmore obviously having closed it. The cook collapsed into the lone chair, relieved to finally be off her feet for the day. She regarded the housekeeper carefully, but could not interpret her mood. Her face was blank, almost disinterested.

"So," said Mrs. Patmore to break the silence that made her so uncomfortable.

"So."

"The day after tomorrow then?"

"That's right. Blackpool…or thereabouts."

"If it's a farm they've got, it might be like going home." Mrs. Patmore herself did not sound very convinced, but she was desperate to cling onto something that might make her friend feel better about the way things had turned out.

"I don't imagine things will be anything like when I was a girl at home, farm or not," remarked Mrs. Hughes drily.

"Well, of course not," said Mrs. Patmore. "I was just saying it wouldn't be foreign."

"Everything is foreign. Foreign or gone, Mrs. Patmore." There was a decided lack of sadness as she spoke these words. It was simply an observation.

"But you will get used to it." Mrs. Patmore assured her.

"I suppose I will," agreed Mrs. Hughes. "I'm not dead, I've just changed. Things will sort themselves out." She was trying ever so hard not to be melancholy. Somewhere, buried deep, there was acceptance, but try as she might she could not find it. Not quite yet. But she could pretend in the meantime.

Mrs. Patmore smiled to see a glimmer of the pragmatic woman she knew so well. "I quite agree," she said firmly. "You've put no more thought into the idea of staying here?"

"I wouldn't pretend I haven't thought about it, but this is what I must do." She paused, struggling with the surge of emotion bubbling up inside. "I will miss you, of course," she said quietly. "Very much I should think."

The words were inadequate at expressing the depth of her feeling, which only upset her further. She fumbled around, reaching for her friend's hand. Mrs. Patmore understood and clasped it tightly.

"As I will miss you," said Mrs. Patmore sincerely. "And what…." she trailed off, trying to figure out how to broach this next subject. She knew she was venturing out onto thin ice, but her curiosity was overwhelming. Mrs. Hughes waited patiently for her friend to continue.

"What of Mr. Carson?" the cook finally blurted out.

Mrs. Hughes frowned. "I don't want to talk about Mr. Carson."

"Because he's upset you?" she guessed.

Mrs. Hughes gave a weary sigh. "No. Because there is nothing to say."

"I see." Mrs. Patmore cringed immediately at her choice of words. Mrs. Hughes seemed to sense her discomfort and laughed.

"I'm sorry," muttered Mrs. Patmore quickly. "That was rather-"

"No, no, please," said Mrs. Hughes. "It's fine. Everyone's been dancing around the expression for a week, and I had no idea how to tell them it was all right to say it."

Mrs. Patmore started to laugh herself. "Oh thank goodness! Here I was believing you'd think me most insensitive."

"Not at all," Mrs. Hughes assured her. "And would you tell the rest of them that? It's getting rather annoying."

"Yes, I shall. They are only trying their best."

"I know that. And I'm grateful."

They lapsed into silence and Mrs. Patmore considered asking about Mr. Carson again. From the kitchen she had heard the housekeeper's hasty departure from his pantry and been witness to the forlorn look on his face as she marched up the stairs. Whatever had happened between them was not her business, but she couldn't help being concerned.

Mrs. Hughes frowned at the cook's silence. "What is it?" she said suspiciously.

"What?" said Mrs. Patmore defensively.

"You're brooding. What is it please?"

"Are you quite sure you can't see anything?" Mrs. Patmore quipped, in an effort to distract from her question.

"Quite," said Mrs. Hughes, still intent on what the cook wasn't saying. "You've got something that you want to tell me, or something you are trying very hard not to. I can't decide."

Mrs. Patmore smiled in spite of herself. "You're correct. On both accounts, I'm afraid. If the farm doesn't work out, I recommend a career in mindreading. You can go round with the fair."

Mrs. Hughes scoffed at the suggestion, but a hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. "Perhaps in another life Mrs. Patmore, but in this one I should like to hear what it is you are so intent on keeping from me."

"I was just…wondering how you felt about leaving certain…people." Mrs. Patmore said cautiously.

She should have suspected as much. Mrs. Hughes thought carefully about her answer, knowing exactly whom they were speaking of, but grateful that they'd avoided his name. "It is always difficult to leave friends behind," she said softly. "Particularly when one didn't think they would ever have to."

It was the admission Mrs. Patmore had been waiting a good many years for, but it didn't bring her much satisfaction now.

"Have you told him that?"

"Why? Either he knows, and saying so will only make our parting more bitter, or he doesn't, in which case it would only confuse him unnecessarily."

"Do you truly think he doesn't know?"

Mrs. Patmore took her silence as an indication that in all likelihood the man did know, even if they'd never spoken outright about it. The cook gave a great sigh. "Do us and yourself a favour, my dear," she said. "Don't leave it on poor terms."

"I-"

"I'll not say any more than that. Just don't leave it in a way you'll regret."

There were a great many interpretations that could be pulled out of that, but Mrs. Hughes knew what the cook was really telling her. She just didn't think she could manage it.

"I'll do my best," she conceded, though what that would be she didn't quite know.

"Good. Now, do you need anything? Before I say goodnight?"

Mrs. Hughes dug her hands underneath the bedclothes to be sure her nightgown was still there. She pulled it free and shook her head. "I'm all set. But thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

"Good night then, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night."

* * *

**TBC...**


	10. What Stays and What Goes

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

The next day she was not permitted to sleep in. Anna woke her before breakfast, and the day was a whirlwind of endless tasks. Despite her meticulous organization, many of her things were scattered, and it took her and Anna considerable time to ferret them all out. Suitcases were packed with her clothing and a few treasured belongings. Most of it was straightforward; Mrs. Hughes did not have a great number of personal possessions – though how she had amassed so many coats in her life was a bit of a mystery. She felt nervous as Anna rummaged through the pockets of each of them, though she couldn't imagine any of the contents being embarrassing. It just was strange to have someone else go through all her personal effects, while she sat idly awaiting questions or instructions.

Her photographs posed more of a problem and Anna had been avoiding them until she couldn't any longer. Mrs. Hughes had Anna put them all in an envelope, tucked into her copy of the King James Bible, with strict instructions to put it on Mr. Carson's desk after she'd left. She didn't think she could suffer through the daunting task of giving it to him herself, but she meant for him to have it. It didn't make much sense, really. Some of the pictures of her family would be meaningless to him. She should keep them, maybe give them to Douglas when he visits – _if he visits, _she thought darkly to herself. He very well may not. There were other people who might recognize the faces in the pictures that weren't her own, but she still felt that they belonged to him. He would appreciate most this little treasure of hers that she had no use for. Something for him to remember her by.

Anna had been very careful when tucking each picture away. She tried to look through them as best she could without slowing the task to a halt. There was one…a candid shot of very young Mrs. Hughes _dancing_ at what was clearly some sort of village dance. She looked blissfully carefree as she spun about. Anna smiled for a moment at the rare glimpse of a very different Mrs. Hughes. On the back was scrawled _"Elsie Hughes. May, 1881."_The maid slipped that particular photograph on top of the pile before closing the envelope.

"Would you like me to write a note to go with them?" the maid asked.

If there were words to explain to him why she wanted him to have this, they were not to be spoken to Anna. Besides, she was sure that he would understand. "No, thank you, Anna."

That was the end of that. The two women moved on to sort out the remaining contents of her closet.

* * *

Daisy spooned leek and potato soup into a bowl and put it on a tray. _Not the greatest farewell lunch_, the assistant cook thought, adding a roll of bread beside it. Mrs. Hughes still refused to eat in the servant's hall with the others. Daisy didn't see any reason for her to be embarrassed, and personally would have liked to see her more, but Mr. Carson had instructed them not to press the issue, and no one dared disobey.

She decided to the deliver the meal herself instead of delegating the job to anyone else, but Mr. Carson stopped her in the hall.

"Thank you Daisy; I'll take that." He said, relieving the girl of the tray.

"It's no trouble, Mr. Carson," protested Daisy.

"I'll take it all the same. Go on. Servant's luncheon is in ten minutes. I'm sure you've things to do."

He'd been looking for an excuse to speak with Mrs. Hughes, and this seemed as good as any. She'd needed space after last evening to absorb everything; he could not blame her for that, but he was not about to let her leave without speaking with her again. He had a feeling their conversation would be a lengthy one - if he were lucky.

He found her in her room, having just finished going through all of her personal belongings with Anna. He sent the girl downstairs for luncheon politely but firmly, ensuring he might have a brief word with Mrs. Hughes by himself.

"I've brought you something to eat," he said, setting down the tray on the table in front of her.

"Thank you," she said somewhat stiffly. She took a deep breath, but the words came out too fast anyways. "I owe you an apology for the way I behaved last night."

"It's quite all right. I understand."

She didn't think he could possibly understand, but she was not about to dismiss his kindness, nor his forgiveness. "Thank you."

He looked around, frustrated that he had to leave her to see to things downstairs. He leaned in and lowered his voice, even though there was no one else in earshot. "Listen. I cannot stay now, but perhaps tonight we might talk?"

She nodded. She had no intention of doing anything else with her evening. Mrs. Patmore had been right; they had to come to some kind of closure with each other. "Come find me after supper? When everything is sorted?" she asked.

"Very good. Do you need any help with that?"

She was already poking at her lunch, "Soup, bread, and a glass of water. Is that right?" she asked, feeling around for the spoon.

"That's right. Not the greatest I'm afraid. Perhaps we'll see about something more interesting for dinner."

"You will not!" she returned sharply. She made a conscious effort to soften her voice. "I will live. Please thank Daisy for me."

"I will." He felt rather terrible, leaving her to eat alone in her room, but there was no way around it; he had to get back downstairs. He descended the stairs feeling decidedly guilty anyways, wishing to be with her, resenting the call of duty in a way he never had before.

_This is what it would be like if she stayed here. _It wouldn't work, much as he wanted it to. The mere thought of her leaving made his heart clench. He'd thought over and over again about asking her to stay. She had seen from the beginning that it wasn't an option, and Mr. Carson knew now it would only hurt her more to ask. He stopped trying to find a way to convince her to stay, and started thinking of all the things he wished to say to her before she left.

* * *

"So that's everything?"

"Everything I can think of at the moment. I can't teach you the job in three days Anna, but that should be enough to hold things together until Mrs. Bute arrives." Mrs. Hughes heaved a great sigh. It had been an exhausting day, and she was quite worn out. She sank into the chair in her sitting room, relieved to have finished running through every day to day household affair they could think of.

"You're tired," Anna observed.

"I don't need you to tell me that," returned Mrs. Hughes, leaning back into the chair.

"Would you like to go upstairs? Have a nap before supper? We've got an early start tomorrow."

"I don't think so. I'd like to stay here for a few minutes…" she said, waving her hands vaguely at the room. "I'll rest in here, I think. It will give me a chance to…say goodbye to it."

"If you like," said Anna softly. "On that subject…some of the staff would probably like to see you before you go … say their own goodbyes."

Anna had been the one charged by the others with broaching the subject, and she did so tactfully, but Mrs. Hughes heard the weight behind the words. She'd been avoiding them, all of them. She had started to feel guilty about the way she'd closed herself off. She was being cowardly, she knew, but what did one say? She'd never liked goodbyes at the best of times, and this was certainly the worst of times. Everything usually said in such situations sounded tinny or cliché or impossible. She _wouldn't _see them again. It _wasn't_ for the best. She _wouldn't_ write. She'd racked her brain for something warm and comforting to offer them and come up short.

"Tomorrow," she told Anna. "I will say goodbye to them tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, then." said Anna firmly, as if she could turn the housekeeper's dismissal into a promise using that tone. "I'll see you later."

"Thank you, Anna. You were a marvel today." That much at least, she could say sincerely, and Anna smiled.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Enjoy your supper."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, and Anna left, letting the door close behind her with a muted click. She breathed a small sigh of relief. It had been such a chaotic day, and she'd had no time alone with her own thoughts. Anna was right about the staff; she would need to say goodbye to them tomorrow, whether she wanted to or not. How she chose to handle that was up to her, but surely she could manage.

There was another goodbye she dreaded more than the rest of them put together. She drummed her fingers idly on the arms of the chair. She'd made a mess of things last night with him, but he'd been remarkably understanding about it today. She remembered back to when she was so sure that he would kiss her - how badly she'd wanted him to, even though she'd known it would be a misstep. Mrs. Patmore had been mistaken; there was no possible way she was going to leave him without regrets. There was only leaving with fewer of them or more of them. To be honest, she wasn't sure which one she'd prefer.

* * *

**TBC...**


	11. I Miss You Already

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

He knocked on the door, more to inform her that he was coming in than to ask for permission to enter. She twisted towards the sound of the door opening, hoping she didn't look as unhappy as she felt.

"Charles," she greeted him hesitantly. She was still trying to muddle through her thoughts and make sense of them all. She didn't even know what she wanted out of their conversation, much less how to get it.

"Elsie," he returned, smiling. "I've got a surprise for you." He'd taken the time to arrange her meal much like he would for upstairs, even though the visual effect would be lost on her.

"Oh?"

He put the tray down on the table and lifted the lid off with a flourish. The smell of roast chicken filled the room. "Your favourite," he announced proudly.

He expected her to smile, but instead she scowled, knowing full well that chicken had not been the menu for this evening. "Did I not tell them about making a fuss?"

She could be so tiresome on the subject! Mr. Carson suppressed an aggravated sigh. "Pick your battles, Elsie. Mrs. Patmore making chicken tonight instead of next Sunday is not one of them."

She knew she was being silly, but everything they did seemed designed to hammer home that she was leaving, whether they meant it to or not. She felt as if she might shatter into tiny pieces, even over something so mundane and insignificant as supper, if she were to let her guard down for one second. "I suppose you're right," she conceded, shifting awkwardly in her seat.

He busied himself with his own meal. She made no moved to touch her own. "They're just trying to be nice. They care about you," he pointed out. _I care about you, _he added in his head.

"I know that," she said a little too sharply. She could see them all in her mind's eye, each member of the staff that she loved so well. She didn't know how to care for _them_, and it was driving her mad.

Mr. Carson winced at her tone, but chose to ignore it. He watched as she laced and unlaced her fingers instead of eating.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked her. "Here-" he moved to help her with her cutlery, but she pulled away.

"I'm not hungry," she said shortly.

"Elsie, you have to eat."

She turned away from the table in defiance. "I _have _to do many things, but eating a meal I never asked for is not one of them!" she snapped.

"There's no need for that." He could not entirely hide the hurt from his voice, and Mrs. Hughes felt even guiltier than she had before.

She pressed her hands to her face in dismay. "I'm sorry. I'm horrible. I'm sorry." It bothered her no end that she was coming across so ungrateful and unkind, but she couldn't seem to stop. The words flew from her mouth unchecked, to Anna, to him, and silently towards herself in an internal monologue that seemed to find fault with everything.

He abandoned his own supper to move his chair closer to her. "You're not horrible."

"I am," she insisted, unable to get past her own unkindness. "You should be glad to be rid of me."

"Don't say things like that. You know they aren't true."

She gave a short humorless laugh. "Aren't they?"

"No," he said seriously. "They're not."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Thank you," she managed. She picked up her fork in an honest attempt to eat something, but set it back down. She couldn't do it. He watched her, concerned.

"Charles?" she asked quietly. She felt like he was already so far away, when he couldn't be more than a few feet from her.

"Yes?"

"I don't feel anything like myself."

She sounded so little and defeated, his heart ached for her. He got up and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. "I know you don't," he said soothingly.

It felt better to hold his hand; it made her feel braver somehow and less alone. "And I don't know how to do this," she confessed.

"Do what?"

"Say goodbye." she whispered. "To you, or to them, or to any of it. This is not how it was supposed to be."

He did not disagree with that, but there was little they could do now about circumstance. Still, he wondered if she had something specific in mind as to how things were 'supposed to be' between them. His own ideas about the two of them had been cloudy at best, hidden behind a veil of propriety even in his own mind for years, but he could not deny their existence.

"How was it supposed to be?" he asked.

She knew instinctively that he was talking about them. "I don't know," she said slowly, thinking such confessions had no place now. "But not this," she admitted.

"No," he agreed, giving her hands a squeeze. "Not this."

All thoughts of supper had been forgotten, and he studied her carefully. He was dying to know what was happening in that head of hers, what future she'd imagined for them that was causing her so much grief to have lost. He could be way off the mark. There was no way to be sure she wasn't simply upset over the loss of her job or the leaving of her home, but he wondered. He knew her to be perceptive and forward thinking. What if she'd been forward thinking about him?

"Do you think…" he began uncertainly. "Do you think we could have made a go of it?"

She inhaled sharply. She'd never thought he'd bring it up himself. She'd resolved not to speak of it, thinking it would be easier for both of them, but she hadn't imagined he'd be so forthcoming. It wasn't like him. But then again, she didn't feel anything like herself.

She could feign ignorance, but she didn't see the point. She was not going to spend her last evening with him lying if she could help it. "I don't know. Maybe," she said.

"Maybe," he parroted, looking down at their hands, regret washing over him. "Maybe, if I'd done things properly."

"If you'd done things properly?" she said, frowning.

"Yes," he said resolutely. "If I'd done things properly. If I'd been honest with myself and with you. If I'd told you-"

"Charles," she said warningly.

He barreled on. "Elsie, you have to know that I-"

"Charles! Please," she pleaded, jerking her hands away. Then, much more quietly: "Please don't."

"What?" he asked, hurt and confused. It had taken all his courage to put words to how he felt, and she'd pulled away.

Mrs. Hughes took a deep shuddering breath. "Charles, if you finish that sentence I may never forgive you."

He was stunned speechless for a moment, but soon recovered. "So, you know that-"

"_Never forgive you_," she repeated tearfully, recoiling further.

She'd started to tremble, so violently he could actually see it. At once, he felt hopelessly selfish. What was it he was trying to accomplish? To get it off his chest? To make himself feel better? How dare he put his own conscience above her? This was not helping, only hurting, and he couldn't imagine what possessed him to push her.

"Come now, don't do that," he said softly, reaching out to her. "I'm so sorry, Elsie. Don't do that."

Relieved that he was going to let the subject drop, she let him comfort her. He ran his hands up and down her arms in slow soothing motions. She was certain he would only say such things to make her feel better, not knowing that they would make her feel worse. One last kindness from him that she didn't deserve, much like the kiss they'd almost shared.

She felt she owed him some kind of explanation, but she couldn't string together more than a few words at a time. "I can't…" she mumbled, "I just…can't…I can't."

She couldn't let him lie to her. There was no need for that to be on his soul for her sake. She loved him far too much to make a liar of him, and far too much to bear hearing him speak false affection for her.

"It's all right. I understand," he intoned. "I understand."

Feeling that perhaps he truly did understand she leaned into him, letting his shoulder support her head. After a moment she lifted it, sure that he couldn't be comfortable kneeling on the floor in front of her. As she suspected, he took the opportunity to stand up.

"What can I do?" he asked her, desperate to make her feel better.

She thought for a moment. Every second closer she came to leaving, the more apprehensive she became, and she had no more work to distract her from the clawing feeling in her stomach. She felt her hands shaking again. It was becoming impossible to hide.

"Will you just hold me? Like you did before?"

"Yes. Of course," he told her warmly.

He took her hand and helped her up out of her chair and over towards his. He marveled at how much easier it was to guide her than that first awkward day. He sat first and then arranged her carefully on his lap. It wasn't entirely comfortable for him, but that was the furthest thing from his mind. She pressed her head gratefully against his chest.

"Better?" he asked her, running his hand up and down her arm.

"Yes," she whispered into his jacket.

Being held by him was a strange and wonderful feeling. She was so rarely touched by anybody, but this past week had changed all that. She'd had people touch her all the time, helping her with her clothes and her meals and getting from one place to another. She was gaining more independence each day, but without question it still was a drastic increase in physical contact. None of it was quite like this though. All of the rest of it was necessary, even clinical at times, but this was different. It wasn't something she required, it was just something that she wanted. She'd never fancied herself someone in need of affection. She was quite fine the way things were before, but it was just _nice._ He smelled nice, and the feeling of being pressed against his broad chest felt nice, as did the way his arm snaked around her waist and the circles he traced on her back with his free hand. In his arms all of her fears didn't seem quite so insurmountable.

She tried to think calmly and rationally about what tomorrow would bring. She was to catch the mid-morning train, which would get her to Blackpool at the prescribed time of two o'clock. That meant leaving shortly after breakfast. Anna would go with her to make sure everything went smoothly, and to help her with her luggage. Martha and David would meet them at Blackpool Central and take her from there, leaving Anna to return to Downton on the next train.

It was all very tidy, really. The logistics were not the issue, but they were much easier to fixate on. Beneath her, Mr. Carson shifted, into what was presumably a more comfortable position and pulled her close. He reminded her of what she truly feared leaving behind. She'd spent most of her adult life at Downton and he'd been an intrinsic part of that. He was weaved into her perception of what home was.

"May I at least tell you that I'll miss you?" he asked her carefully. It was harder with her in his arms to keep control of his words, but he thought he understood now what she needed to hear and what she didn't.

"Yes," she said, blinking back tears. "You may."

"Then know that I will miss you, Elsie. So very much."

She longed more in that moment than any other since this entire ordeal began to see his face. To be able to look into his eyes and trust that he understood all the things she found so impossible to voice. She lifted her head off his chest, but there was nothing but a dark blur before her. All of her gratitude and her apologies and her love stayed hidden in shadows she could not clear.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing her lip tremble.

"I miss you already."

"Oh, Elsie," he said stroking her cheek. She collapsed back into him, willing herself not to cry. That was not the last memory she wanted of him, and that thought was enough to stem her tears.

"I'm scared," she mumbled into his chest.

Even in his arms she was still shaky, as she tried desperately to ignore her trepidation about what lay ahead. "You're going to be fine," he reassured her. "You are the bravest woman I know, and you're going to be fine."

"Thank you," she managed. "Charles? I'm so…sorry."

He was too choked up to reply so he just squeezed her tighter, grateful that she couldn't see him cry. There she was in his arms, but somehow she was already a hundred miles away, forever out of his reach.

* * *

**TBC...**


	12. Fare Thee Well (Love)

**To my wonderful, overwhelmingly supportive readers, (some of whom seem to be crying at the last chapter)**

**Thank you for all the support. Really, it means a lot. And for the record: I'm crying with you. Despite being the author. It's a tricky thing really. **

**Kissman **

**P.S. Also, thanks to chelsie fan, for being my beta crier. **

* * *

The next morning was surprisingly unhurried, thanks mostly to Anna and her excellent organization. At present, the maid sat with Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room, running through the schedule one last time over breakfast. Mrs. Hughes was rather tired, having stayed up fairly late with Mr. Carson the night before. Eventually, he'd had to insist she go to bed, or she probably never would have gone.

There was a knock at the door, and Anna went to answer it. "Mrs. Hughes?" she said. "Someone would like to speak with you."

She frowned, but Anna did not offer any further details. "Let them in then," she said.

Whoever entered did not announce themselves, but she caught a hint of cigarette smoke. Mr. Barrow?

"Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Barrow greeted her, his voice confirming what she'd suspected.

"Mr. Barrow," said Mrs. Hughes evenly.

There was an awkward pause. Anna decided perhaps it would be best if she stepped out of the room and mumbled an excuse to the two of them.

"Well, what is it?" Mrs. Hughes prompted, once they were alone.

Mr. Barrow almost backed away then and there, too afraid to voice what he'd come to say, but something stopped him. He was not going to be a coward, not about this. She cocked her head expectantly at him, waiting to be enlightened.

"Mrs. Hughes," said the under butler, "you have always shown me kindness, and I have not always shown it back in return. I hope you can forgive me for that."

The difficulty with which these words were spoken was not lost on Mrs. Hughes, nor was the sincerity with which they were meant. She smiled, a true, genuine smile, and gave him a pat on the arm. "I believe I can, Mr. Barrow."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

She felt more sure of herself than she had in days. The man could be ambitious and sometimes downright cruel, but he was not entirely without redeemable qualities, nor had he been dealt the easiest lot in life.

"You've done well for yourself here," she told him. "Keep your head down as much as you can, and I'm sure things will work out for you." Advice he would do well to follow, though she wasn't entirely sure he would take it.

"Yes, I hope so." Perhaps she was not his favourite person in the world, but she had shown him more understanding than most, and what's more she was a known quantity. He was honestly sad to see her go.

"I wish you well, Mr. Barrow," she told him.

He shook her hand briefly and released it. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hughes."

No sooner had he left the room than there was a knock on the door. "Mrs. Hughes?"

"What is it Anna?"

"You, um, you seem to have more guests lined up out here."

"Just exactly how many more guests?" she asked, moving to the doorway.

"Quite a few," Anna admitted, glancing at the long line of staff that had formed in the corridor. She might as well tell her; she was about to find out anyways. "Err…everyone, really."

"Hmmm," she said, pursing her lips together slightly to hide her gladness. "And they haven't work they ought to be doing instead?"

"I think it can wait just this once, Mrs. Hughes," came Mr. Carson's booming voice to her left. He leaned in to speak in her ear. "Provided that's alright with you?" he asked quietly.

"It's fine," she murmured back. "Have you put them up to this?"

"No," he whispered, delighted. "They've done it themselves."

And so started the steady stream of staff members through her sitting room. Anna had not been exaggerating. The entire downstairs staff had come to say goodbye to their beloved housekeeper. They came bearing grateful words of thanks for her kindness over the years and reiterating, every one of them, that they would miss her. She smiled as they pressed kisses to her cheeks and occasionally small presents into her hands. Sam, their youngest hall boy, who stammered his way nervously through his entire goodbye, had tried to give her his lucky penny. It was one of the very first coins he'd ever earned at Downton, and she had been the one to give it to him. She convinced him gently that perhaps he ought to keep it himself, and then maybe he'd become a footman one day. The lad had liked this prospect and happily put it back in his pocket, promising her he'd never spend it. Daisy gave her toffees for the train and Madge, very cheekily, brought her a feather from one of the dusters to remember her by. The girl never did have a talent for dusting. She thanked them all, whispering back words of affection and her hopes for their futures.

Mrs. Patmore brought up the rear, already weeping before she even got to the door. She threw her arms around her friend in a great bear hug, almost knocking the poor woman over.

"There, there, Mrs. Patmore. No need for all the…hysteria." She dug through her pockets (with great difficulty considering she was still being crushed by Mrs. Patmore), and pulled out the new handkerchief Miss Baxter had kindly embroidered for her. She held it up to the cook.

"No, no, you keep that. You might need it later," insisted Mrs. Patmore. "I've got me own."

Mrs. Hughes tucked it back into the pocket of her traveling dress, knowing the cook was probably right. She'd held it together rather well so far; the crying had been from others, not from her. The more she comforted them, the easier a time she had keeping her own emotions at bay. It was a sad day certainly, but mostly she was touched by the outpouring of affection from the staff, something perhaps she should have anticipated, but hadn't.

Eventually, Mrs. Patmore stopped crying long enough to wish her goodbye properly, and then the next thing she knew Mr. Carson had come back.

"They've just pulled the car around. It's time to go up," he informed them.

He helped her with her coat, and offered her his arm. She took it, even though she was more than capable of walking the distance alone. It was easier and it made her feel steadier as they made their way outside. Anna followed, helped by Jimmy with the suitcases.

As they approached the front of the house Mr. Carson halted them for a moment. "The Family has come out to give you a proper send off," he explained in low tones.

"All of them?" asked Mrs. Hughes in surprise. It was mid-November, and reasonably cold outside. She had not thought she warranted interrupting the Family's day, let alone having them to stand outside in the brisk autumn air for her.

Mr. Carson smiled at Mrs. Hughes. "Yes, all of them," he said. "You didn't think they were going to let you leave without saying goodbye; did you?"

She had hoped last night to slip away unnoticed, thinking it preferable to long drawn out goodbyes with everyone, but she saw some merit now in doing things properly. It seemed an awful lot of fuss to interrupt their day, but perhaps Mr. Carson was right: they could let it go this once. It didn't upset her half so much as she'd thought it would.

Lord and Lady Grantham were slightly more formal in their goodbyes, and if one hadn't known better, it almost would have appeared awkward, but Mrs. Hughes knew that their stilted words were perfectly sincere. Lady Mary and Lady Edith followed suit, offering their own farewells. Tom decided to completely ignore the example set by his sisters-in-law and gave Mrs. Hughes an enormous hug. Lord Grantham frowned disapprovingly, and Mr. Carson gave a start, but Tom didn't care what they thought of him for the moment. Mrs. Hughes was momentarily shocked, but gladly returned his embrace.

"Thank you. For everything," he told her. That was the closest she came to crying all morning. She was so proud of him, and she told him so, not caring who heard her say it. After a moment he pulled away, leaving her slightly disoriented until Mr. Carson came up beside her.

Anna, very astutely, had decided to occupy herself with checking the cases, leaving Mr. Carson to say goodbye and help Mrs. Hughes into the car. Knowing they were in full view of the Family and the staff, he could not pull her into his arms as he'd have liked to, but he did take her hand and squeezed it tight. He guided her carefully into the car, never letting go of her hand.

"Goodbye, Elsie," he said quietly. There were so many other words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them. She did not wish to hear them, and perhaps it was better this way for them both.

She bit her lip hard, to keep herself from crying and spent their last few seconds together trying to memorize him. She wanted to remember forever the way he said her name, the way he smelled, and the way his hand felt holding hers. She noticed Anna climb into the seat beside her and knew it must be time to go.

"Goodbye, Charles," she whispered.

Regretfully, he let go of her and closed the door. As the car pulled away and she faded out of sight, Mr. Carson couldn't help but wonder if he'd made a very great mistake.

* * *

**TBC...**


	13. In Her Wake

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

When she left, a piece of him left with her: one he had only recently realized she possessed. He spent the entirety of the day distracted, spending all his energy trying not to think of her, when that was impossible. That night he gave in to his thoughts and let himself imagine he was holding her again, that she had let him tell her he loved her, that she had promised to stay.

The entire week was much like this. He'd known for years that she was more than merely the housekeeper, and while he missed her seamless efficiency and her quiet guidance, that wasn't the loss that plagued him. He had anticipated missing their evenings together or her smiles as breakfast. He knew the joy he found in her company could not entirely be replaced. But to have come to understand that he loved her and have had her torn away moments later was too much. He grew angry; at her for leaving, at himself for not telling her he loved her sooner, at the world for ever putting him in this situation. He resolved to forget her. What else could he do?

His anger, naturally, was impossible to hide from the staff. His words were gruff, his temper short. She had been his calming thought for a long time and now she was off limits. The fact that she had taken that sense of balance and peace in him with her made him angrier still. He knew he was unreasonable, but he didn't care. Mrs. Bute could hardly believe this new Mr. Carson who was so furious and unkind. He'd always been patient with her before, even if he insisted on the highest possible standards. Now he was borderline unbearable to be around.

It was late Sunday night when there was a great crashing sound in the downstairs corridor. Daisy had been helping the footmen ferry the wine from upstairs. This was not usually her job, but Mr. Carson had forgotten about it and they'd thought it would be a kindness to return it all themselves. Unfortunately she dropped an armload on the stair, smashing glass and spilling wine everywhere. Upon discovering the unhappy scene, Mr. Carson gave them a right earful. He voice bellowed through the downstairs, so loud it was impossible not to overhear. They may have been careless, but they did not deserve such treatment. Daisy looked about ten years old again. She'd only been trying to help. It could have happened to anyone, and it _wouldn't_ have happened at all if he'd done his job correctly. Nobody said these things back to him of course, but how they wanted to!

When he'd finished his tirade, he left them to clean up their mess. He stalked back into this pantry, followed by a very unimpressed Mrs. Patmore.

She walked in uninvited and shut the door firmly behind her.

"Mr. Carson, I do not believe that was entirely necessary."

He did not seem surprised to see her, but he was not happy to have his office invaded in such a fashion. He refused to stand up; instead he brushed her comment off with a wave of his hand and started rummaging around in his desk for the picture he'd deliberately hidden from himself. A picture he needed to be rid of once and for all.

"They were being cavalier," he muttered dismissively.

"They were not. They were helping _you_. And the next time you have a mind to yell at Daisy like that I'd thank you to hold your tongue and leave it to me!"

He stopped his search for the photograph to address Mrs. Patmore head on, his face turning red with anger. "I would remind you, Mrs. Patmore, that I am perfectly within my right to discipline any staff member of this house, in any manner I see fit," he seethed.

"Keep disciplining them like that and they'll all have quit by Monday! And I won't blame them."

He made a low noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a scoff. Mrs. Patmore, despite her anger at him for his behaviour, felt quite sorry for the man. He was clearly hurting and she knew precisely why. She made a decided effort to soften her tone. She hadn't come simply to berate him. This needed to stop.

"When the butler goes to pieces so does the staff," she said.

He looked at her incredulously. "I have not…_gone to pieces!" _

Oh, that was rich. "What on earth do you call this!?"

He pressed his lips together firmly, trying to gather his thoughts. "I admit that I have been slightly more irritable this week than usual, and for that I apologize, Mrs. Patmore."

He looked at her as if to say, 'Are we finished here?' Mrs. Patmore stood her ground.

"She'd be furious, you know, if she knew how badly this week had gone."

She would be, for a multitude of reasons ranging from his private misery to how dismal the linen closet had already become, but how _dare_ Mrs. Patmore evoke her? She had no right to drag her into this, no right to remind him of exactly how inept he had become in her absence. It was pathetic, he thought, well and truly pathetic of him. He felt his anger rise again, furious at himself for being so affected…so vulnerable…so stupid. She was probably fine without him and here he was so completely useless and-

"Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore's voice broke up his thoughts.

"I do not wish to discuss her," he said shortly.

The pain in his voice was so evident; no matter how angry he was, it was there. He'd become so wrapped up in his own misery he wasn't capable of seeing past it to his actions or to the indignant cook in front of him who was trying to help. She tried to have patience with him, but her patience had worn quite thin with the pair of them.

"You are not the only one who misses her you know! But you don't see me shrieking at the staff and shirking my work! For heaven sakes, Mr. Carson! If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else?"

It was a low blow to mention how much his work had suffered this past week, but it was the only way to reach him, and it worked. He glared at her, his collar feeling uncomfortably tight, his hands clenching into fists of their own accord.

"I don't recall you pushing back particularly hard when the plan for her to live with you fell though," he snapped.

"That's because she hasn't been patently in love with me for the past twenty or so years!"

There was a beat of silence where the both stared at each other. When he found his voice it was hoarse and unsteady.

"She said that to you? That she was in love with me?"

"Not in so many words."

"In _any_ words, Mrs. Patmore?"

Mrs. Patmore was nearly in tears. Good Lord, was he truly so incredibly thick? She took a deep breath. "How about in every little thing she's _done_ since the day she set foot in this house!"

He stood abruptly. He couldn't listen to this. He couldn't even think straight, his head all muddled and cloudy. He stormed out of the room without another word, his face like thunder. Mrs. Patmore followed him.

"Where are you going?" she called after him, as he strode down the hall.

He didn't turn to look at her. "Out, Mrs. Patmore. I'm going out."

"It's past ten o' clock!" she reminded him. He didn't break his stride. "Mr. Carson, it's _raining._"

He paid her no mind. Up the stairs and out the back door he went, letting it slam shut behind him.

He walked for a long time, in no particular direction. It was dark, almost too dark to see the path in front of him, but he didn't care. He just needed to get as far away from the house as possible. It was raining, as Mrs. Patmore had said, a cold steady rain that soaked through his shirt, but he barely noticed. Mud covered his shoes and splattered his trousers as the driveway gave way to dirt roads, and still he walked. Past the farms and over the hills of the countryside he went, at a fairly rapid pace. His breath came in shorter bursts and heart beat faster, but with every step away he felt better. As if he were safer, now that he was finally, properly alone.

Eventually he stopped, his clothing soaked and filthy, and sat down beneath a large yew tree, which offered some protection from the rain that was now pouring from the sky. He looked down the road at the row of cottages that ran south. The one closest had a lamp flickering in the window. He stared at it, it's soft light blurred by the windowpane and the sheets of water coming down.

_If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else? _

Mrs. Patmore's words rolled around in his head, almost idly. Away from the house they were just words, and he could imagine them detached from the emotion they had been said with. It repeated over and over again, calmer each time. _If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else? _ He sat there and looked at the light in the cottage for a very, very long time, ignoring the way his fingers and toes went numb from the cold. He stared, mesmerized by the light in the window. And he had an idea.

* * *

**TBC...**


	14. You Want To Do What?

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

"You want to do what!?"

"Retire, M'Lord."

The faces of the family in the library were quite the sight. He'd expected no less than their shocked expressions. Mary's eyes went as wide as saucers at the pronouncement, and she stared at him in alarm. Mr. Carson couldn't meet her eye; he looked politely, if awkwardly, over the shoulder of Lord Grantham, awaiting his reaction.

Lady Grantham spoke instead. "Carson, is something wrong?"

"Yes and no, M'Lady."

"But you are not unwell," Lady Grantham clarified, still worried about some hidden health problem they'd all missed.

"No, M'Lady.

"Then what is this about?" demanded Lord Grantham.

Mr. Carson clasped his hands a little tighter behind his back and lifted his chin. "It is about Mrs. Hughes."

"What about Mrs. Hughes?"

"I'm worried she may be…unhappy with her current situation, and that makes me unhappy, M'Lord."

"Unhappy? And why on earth should she be unhappy?"

"But of course she's unhappy!" The entire room was caught off guard by Lady Edith's exasperated pronouncement.

"Edith?" questioned Lady Grantham.

Lady Edith was practically beside herself. "She's alone, sightless, in house she doesn't know, with family she's never met! How could any of us sit here and honestly think she's happy?!"

An uncomfortable silence followed. Lady Edith looked indignant, Lord Grantham confused, and Lady Grantham rather upset. Losing Mrs. Hughes had been sudden; obviously there would be a period of adjustment. This seemed like a very rash reaction for their loyal and devoted butler.

"And because of this you wish to retire?!" said Lord Grantham disbelievingly.

"Yes, M'Lord."

"That makes absolutely no sense."

Lady Mary, who had been watching the proceedings silently up until now with a preoccupied look on her face, stood up abruptly. "Oh, Papa! He's miserable! Can't you see that? He's _been_ miserable since the minute she stood just there and told everyone she wasn't well."

Lady Mary turned to Carson apologetically, "Sorry, Carson, but it's true."

Lord Grantham was having trouble coming to terms with this. "Forty years serving this family, and all of a sudden you're miserable?!"

Mr. Carson managed to look Lord Grantham in the eye. "Yes, I am, M'Lord."

Lord Grantham opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Mr. Carson cleared his throat awkwardly. "If I might speak plainly, M'Lord?"

"Why the hell not?!" said Lord Grantham throwing up his hands. "Perhaps you can explain to me this ridiculous proposition."

"As I said, I would like to retire. If I were no longer employed at Downton, then I might care for Mrs. Hughes, instead of having her cousins do it. She doesn't know them, M'Lord. It doesn't seem right."

"No, it doesn't," agreed Lady Grantham quietly.

Lord Grantham gave his wife a disapproving a look, and she glared back. He turned back to Mr. Carson. "So what now? You disappear in a puff of smoke to do what exactly? Be her nurse? Marry her? How do you think this is going to play out, exactly?"

"It will play out however Mrs. Hughes wishes it to play out, M'Lord."

"And suppose she doesn't wish to come at all?"

"That is a risk I'm willing to take, M'Lord."

"Because you're miserable," he shot a look at his eldest daughter. "Well, if she doesn't come back, don't come groveling to me for your job back."

"Robert!" admonished Lady Grantham. "Don't say things you do not mean! If Mrs. Hughes stays in Blackpool, then Carson will come back and resume his post as usual. It's bad enough we've lost Mrs. Hughes; you'll not turn him out."

Lord Grantham did not look very pleased to be undermined in this way, but he had to concede that his wife was right. This was Carson they were talking about here. Charles Carson. No one had served the family better.

"There is one thing I don't understand," said Lord Grantham.

_The things you don't understand would fill a great many books. _Mr. Carson rarely thought of his employer in such an unsavory way, but this entire conversation was making him decidedly irritated. He knew Lord Grantham hadn't truly meant it, that it had been said because he was caught off guard by the news, but the suggestion that he would not be welcome back still cut deep.

"If this is what you wanted, why didn't you say so before she left? Why not plan this from the beginning?"

Mr. Carson shifted uncomfortably. "It didn't seem appropriate."

"And it's appropriate now?"

"It's … _necessary_ now, M'Lord."

This confused Lord Grantham further, but Lady Mary smiled reassuringly at him.

"Of course it is," she said. "If this is what you want, Carson, then so be it. I'm sure nothing we can say will stop you now."

Her tone was one of unwavering support, despite the fact that she was rather hurt to hear he would be leaving. Mr. Carson smiled at her gratefully. "No, I don't think it would, M'Lady."

"Well," said Lady Mary, "I suppose it's settled. How soon might a cottage be ready?" She directed this question to her father, as if daring him to disagree. Mr. Carson watched with bated breath.

Lord Grantham hesitated and Lady Mary pounced, "Unless, Papa, you plan instead on banishing him from Downton in payment for his years of loyal service?"

"Of course not!" sputtered Lord Grantham, looking indignant. "But Carson…are you quite sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I assume you wish to get this underway immediately."

"If I may," he said carefully. "If I am to have a cottage, as Lady Mary suggests, I would be close enough to assist my replacement in settling in. Mr. Barrow might be capable of taking over, or I could suggest a few outside candidates, if you prefer."

"Let's not put the cart before the horse. We don't even know if Mrs. Hughes will wish to return," said Lord Grantham. "We will see to finding a cottage, and perhaps you will or will not have reason to use it right away. If you do, we will discuss your replacement then."

This was the best answer Mr. Carson could have hoped for. "Thank you, M'Lord."

Lady Grantham clapped her hands together, as if to declare some sort of adjournment to the conversation. "Well," she said, "it seems there is a lot of work to be done." She pulled the bell. "Carson, you go organize your things. I'm sure we can see to the cottage for you. Perhaps we might be able to enlist Anna's assistance?"

"Yes, M'Lady."

"Other than her, why don't we keep this from the rest of the staff for now? Until we're sure that you will not be returning to us."

"Very prudent, M'Lady." He had not thought of that, but it was a very good idea. He had not been able to contemplate what he might do if she really did say no, but it was a possibility they had to consider.

"Thank you, Carson." He was being dismissed, and he nodded politely to them. Once he'd left, Lady Mary took it to run after him.

"Carson?" she called.

He turned in surprise. "Yes, M'Lady?"

Lady Mary looked over her shoulder to confirm they were out of earshot of her parents. "Before you go," she said. "You might consider speaking with Mr. Travis?"

Mr. Carson gave a start. He'd not expected that. "I suppose you're right, M'Lady."

"I think it might… expedite things upon your return. I could do it for you if you like."

"You would do that for" - he almost said 'us,' but stopped himself at the last moment; there was no 'us' yet - "me, M'Lady?"

"Carson, I would be happy to."

For a moment, Mr. Carson was struck by just how much she had grown since the unfortunate death of Mr. Matthew. Love and motherhood had changed her, and she could see clearly how very painful losing Mrs. Hughes was for him. Mr. Carson was quite touched by the offer. "Thank you, M'Lady. Thank you very much."

"Not at all, Carson," she said, giving him a warm smile. "And never mind Papa; he's just surprised, that's all. It will take him some time."

Mr. Carson made a small noncommittal noise deep in his throat. The words of his employers had been both very hurtful and very kind; it was difficult for him to reconcile both feelings. Instead he focused on the important young woman before him, who had not thought to question or dismiss him. "Your support alone means the world to me, M'Lady."

"Well, I do not wish for you to leave us, but we are all behind you, Carson. _Even_ Papa. Or he will be."

She looked so determined that he couldn't help but smile at her. "As you say, M'Lady."

Lady Mary nodded at him. "Now, let us get on. As I understand it, we both have much to do."

And with that, Mr. Carson's idea was properly underway.

* * *

**TBC**


	15. Something of a Plan

**Extra thanks to chelsiefan today. Apologies for the delay, folks. **

* * *

Once the decision had been made, everything happened rather quickly. There was a recently renovated cottage that lacked tenants, and it was deemed appropriate. It was one of the smaller ones, which suited him fine. He did not have time to see it before giving his approval. Two bedrooms, no stairs, Lady Mary informed him. That would do. It was not close, some twenty five-minute walk from the Abbey, but it could not be helped. The distance did provide Anna with a considerable challenge in orchestrating the moving of furniture for them. She employed the help of Mr. Branson, who gallantly offered his services (after catching wind of the truth from Lady Mary, and deciding the whole thing was a smashing idea). Also entrusted with this task were several footmen, though they remained ignorant to the real purpose of it all. Neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes had amassed any furniture of his or her own during their time at Downton, but Lady Grantham saw fit to go through the attics and relegate some discarded pieces for them. She, unlike her husband, did not see this as a fruitless exercise. Carson didn't do anything without thinking it through. If this was a gamble, it was likely a very calculated one. She did not think for one minute they were likely to get their butler back.

The only other person informed was Mrs. Patmore, and Mr. Carson took the time to fill her in on the proceedings immediately after his conversation with the Family. Her smile at the news could not have been wider. Mr. Carson found himself insisting that nothing was for certain and that it might not amount to anything. It was a stark contrast from the confidence he'd had upstairs, but Mrs. Patmore's glee could not be diminished. She insisted on going down and inspecting the kitchen of the cottage herself, muttering on about how he was going to have to learn to cook. He begged her not to give the game away, as a smidgen of fear started to creep into this thoughts. He had no idea how to cook! He had no idea how to do a lot of things they might need done, and he was only just starting to consider them now. Mrs. Patmore, sensing that perhaps she'd unsettled him, reassured him at once that all would be well. Her making a point of going to see the cottage did him no favours. He was sure the staff must have caught on to something by now. They had taken to whispering but suddenly stopping whenever he entered the room, and the announcement that he would be away the day after next was met with poorly concealed smirks. Mr. Barrow in particular looked very smug. Mr. Carson tried not to think about that. Bully for them. If all went well they would know before the week was out anyways.

He'd written to her cousin Martha that afternoon, a short letter informing her of his intention to 'visit.' It was debatable whether it would arrive before he did, but he was keen not to delay a moment later than he had to. Lady Edith's declaration about their former housekeeper's unhappiness had struck him hard, and her words rang in his head all day as he organized everything for his departure. Work that otherwise might have been completed later was suddenly of the utmost importance. His personal belongings were packed up in their entirety, and he prayed with each new box that he would not find himself unpacking them back at Downton in a few days' time. She had to come back. She just had to. His haste did not let him ponder the alternative. She just had to.

After a night of very little sleep, Mr. Carson spent the next day with a growing knot in the pit of his stomach. Eating was practically out of the question because he was so unsettled. Everything was moving so impossibly fast, and at his request, no less! That didn't make the speed feel any less reckless. Now it was a force greater than he, with Mrs. Patmore, Anna, Lady Mary, Mr. Branson and Lady Grantham all behind it: a runaway train that he didn't think he could stop even if he wanted to.

That afternoon Anna managed to drag him away from his work to see the cottage she'd spent the last day and a half preparing. It wasn't quite finished, but she was very proud of her handiwork and keen for him to approve of it before he left. Seeing the red brick building, even from afar was enough to make him feel like there was no turning back now. This was going to be their home. It felt very wrong of him to be thinking of it as 'theirs' already when she hadn't given her permission for him to do any of this. She never would have allowed him to do it when she was still at Downton. Who was to say she would be pleased about it now?

Anna led him joyfully in the front door, through the tiny parlor and into to the front hall. It was all one level, with the living room immediately on his right. It was cozy with a great stone fireplace in the center of the south wall. Beyond that, lay the kitchen and the dining room, which seemed to be joined together without much clear distinction between one and the other. He tried to imagine Mrs. Hughes agreeing to this, attempting to picture her sitting in a chair by the fireplace or eating supper at the dining room table. It was more difficult than he might have liked, which made him nervous. Out of the kitchen windows he could see a small, but established garden in the back. There was even a swinging bench that had been built close to the house. He fantasized for a brief moment about her holding his hand as they sat on the bench together. It was a pleasant enough idea, but he couldn't be certain it would ever come true. He was new at imagining this sort of thing; it wasn't something he'd ever permitted himself to do before. Perhaps that was why it felt so peculiar.

Anna tore his attention away from the back windows to continue their little tour. There were two bedrooms, also furnished: one with a large double bed and one with a small single one, much like the one he had currently at Downton. 'That's what Lady Grantham gave us,' explained Anna, apologizing that they weren't the same. There was a small bathroom, with a fairly large porcelain tub. Mr. Carson thought it must take up about half the room. It looked almost comically large in such a small space, but quite pleasant even for a man of his size, and the newly installed hot water boiler would make it even more so. The only other rooms of note were a storage closet and the laundry room, which was tucked onto the side of the house almost as if it were an afterthought on the part of the builders.

Once the tour was over, they found themselves back in the living room, again admiring the fireplace. Anna had moved a few specific items from the housekeeper's sitting room here. Just a few table linens and one of the lamps, but it was more than enough to bring an element of their former Housekeeper to the room. He paused to look at the embroidered cloth on one of the tables, running his finger across her careful stitching along the border. She had not been a particularly artistic embroiderer, but it was very neatly done and pretty, in a strangely utilitarian sort of way.

Anna had noticed his pensive mood. "Do you think she'll really come back, Mr. Carson?"

He withdrew his hand from the material, taking a step back. "I hope so," he said quietly.

"As do I," said Anna firmly. "We'd best start heading back, if we're to be in time for the gong."

Anna was right; they couldn't afford to linger much longer. With one last hopeful glance around the room, Mr. Carson followed her back to the house.

* * *

Later that evening Lord Grantham summoned Mr. Carson to the drawing room. Mr. Carson was a bit perturbed at being interrupted while he was preparing to serve dinner - his last dinner if all went according to plan.

"Carson, come in."

Mr. Carson was surprised to see that Lord Grantham was alone. Perhaps none of the women were down yet. Lord Grantham gestured at one of the chairs in front of him. "Have a seat."

"I prefer to stand, M'Lord."

Lord Grantham nodded, looking a little put out. "Whatever makes you more comfortable. I just wanted to say… that I was a little hard on you the other night."

There was only one correct answer for a servant to give to this statement, and Mr. Carson knew it by heart. "No, M'Lord," he said evenly.

Lord Grantham did not miss the way the butlers chin rose a little in silent defiance. The man was not making this any easier to say. He supposed he deserved that. "It was a great loss to this house to lose Mrs. Hughes so suddenly," he said a little defensively.

Mr. Carson nodded carefully, sensing there was more to his employer's train of thought.

"I will not sit here and hope that she returns with you," Lord Grantham said, frowning now. "I still think it's rather foolish, but there we have it. For you to retire would be a great loss also, Carson, but I don't wish you any unhappiness. Not after everything we've been through."

It was an apology, or as close to one as Mr. Carson was ever going to get. Some of his previous irritation with the man evaporated. It was a lot to process; Mr. Carson even thought so himself. "I think I understand, M'Lord."

"I hope you do, Carson. And I'm sorry if I made you doubt how valued you are by us."

"Yes, thank you, M'Lord."

Some sense of balance had been restored, and both men breathed a little easier now. The dinner awaiting Mr. Carson's attention downstairs sprang to the forefront of his mind again. "Your Lordship, if I may," he said, cocking his head towards the door.

"Yes, of course," said Lord Grantham quickly, realizing too late that Mr. Carson had been waiting for a dismissal. "That's everything for now."

Dinner went smoothly, despite the fact that the butler could not have been more distracted. He left serving the after dinner drinks to Mr. Barrow, as he still needed to see to some things downstairs.

When the last ledger was finally balanced, leaving the household books perfectly in order, there was soft rap on his open pantry door.

"Carson? Might I come in?"

Mr. Carson jumped to his feet, as Lady Mary entered. "Yes, of course, M'Lady."

She shut the door behind her. "I just wanted to wish you luck, for I likely won't see you in the morning. And to tell you that I did speak to Mr. Travis."

Mr. Travis! In the hurry of the day he'd almost forgotten. "And?" he asked nervously.

Lady Mary gave him a brilliant smile. "There is a marriage license sitting on his desk at this very moment bearing your names. All you need to do is say the word."

Mr. Carson looked slightly dumbstruck, which Lady Mary found rather amusing. "It seems Archbishop Lang was fairly easy to convince. Apparently he remembers you."

Blinking away his exhaustion, Mr. Carson furrowed his brow. "I believe he's visited Downton, but I didn't think he'd remember me, M'Lady."

"Well, he did remember you, Carson or at the very least, he remembered the the excellent service he received while you were Butler here." Lady Mary's smile wavered slightly. "Who could possibly forget?"

Mr. Carson regarding her fondly. "Thank you, M'Lady."

"Not at all, Carson," returned Lady Mary. She blinked a few times and made a concentrated effort to lighten the atmosphere. "Besides," she smiled, "we couldn't have you start off your retirement by bringing a woman home and causing a great scandal could we?"

"M'Lady, I would never-"

"Carson," Lady Mary interrupted. "You could never bring anything remotely scandalous down on this house, I assure you. I do believe you might be the only one of us incapable of it. But I am glad to help."

He was so thankful that he didn't have to explain himself in his current state that he just bowed his head in relief.

"Carson?" she asked softly. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, M'Lady."

Lady Mary looked very thoughtful. "Do you love her?"

He looked at her oddly. She held his gaze firm, feeling strangely bolder than she ever had before with him.

"I…I…"

"It's a simple question, Carson," she said, not unkindly, "one I sincerely hope you know the answer to before you get on that train tomorrow."

Mr. Carson swallowed. "Yes," he said, quietly but resolutely. "Yes, M'Lady, I believe I do love her."

"Good," said Lady Mary proudly. To her, this validated everything that she had done for him over the past few days. His love was still in the world, and if there were any hope of bringing her back to him, then she supported that with her whole heart. She stepped up on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Then go get her, Carson."

* * *

**TBC... **


	16. Please Come Home

**As always, my sincere thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

"I'm glad you've come."

Mr. Carson relinquished his hat and coat into the waiting arms of Martha. She was a slight woman, taller and thinner than her cousin. Her eyes resembled Elsie's, but that was about it. She welcomed Mr. Carson warmly, genuinely quite pleased to see him. She was quite pleased to see _anyone_ who might have some insight into her strange and quiet cousin. It had been an uncomfortable week settling her in, far more awkward than either would have liked. Perhaps this man might be able to lift her spirits or at least engage her in some semblance of real life.

"Thank you," said Mr. Carson, stepping further into the house. It had not been a difficult journey. After catching the morning train he'd managed to make it to Martha and David's farm just after luncheon.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Carson," Martha urged, ushering him into the living room.

"I take it you received my letter?" Surely she must have, if she knew his name.

"Just now," she said, indicating the opened envelope sitting on the living room table. "I was surprised that you came so soon. She didn't expect any visitors for a while. Or ever, so she said, but I figured she was just a little down in the mouth. You know, from the moving and everything. I'm sure she'll come round eventually. I can wait."

"Mmm," mumbled Mr. Carson noncommittally. "But you told her I was coming?" He resisted the urge to look around for her as Martha offered him a seat. He sank into the soft cushions of the chesterfield, trying to conceal how nervous he was. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. She was here, in this house.

"Told her?" said Martha, very surprised. "Why your letter arrived only about three minutes before you did, Mr. Carson! Post is never very reliable around here. I suppose you can just tell her yourself now. She hasn't even come down yet, though sometimes she don't unless you make her. I was saying to David just before he went to town that if she weren't down within the hour I was planning to bring some lunch to her. I've tried asking what she likes, but she don't like to request anything."

Mr. Carson fidgeted uncomfortably. "I see. Might I see her?" Sitting still was going to prove impossible while she was somewhere close by. He'd come all this way only to be separated by a few walls and her very talkative cousin.

"She's upstairs. Spends a lot of time in her room, she does. Doesn't speak much. Was she always shy?"

That didn't sound like the Elsie Hughes he knew. He shook his head slowly.

Martha barreled on. "Because it's impossible to get more than two words out of her, Mr. Carson. Believe me, I've tried. 'Yes' and 'No' and 'Please' and 'Thank you.' She don't want to talk about Downton, and she don't want to talk about Lorna, and there ain't much else for us to talk about, if you ask me. I just give her space. She's no trouble, not at all. Sits on her bed for hours at a time though. She's probably there now, if you'd like. First door on the left," said Martha motioning towards the stairs. Mr. Carson nodded and graciously excused himself.

Upstairs he found her sitting upright on the edge of her bed, just as Martha had told him he would. Quietly he stepped into the doorway, hoping to gauge for himself how she was before making his presence known.

She was too pale; that much was obvious. Unblinking, she stared at the wall, but what she saw there was anyone's guess. It was bizarre to see her hair down at all, let alone curling and tangled in such a madcap fashion. He noted that she was clad in only her dressing gown. It was almost two o' clock in the afternoon.

"Elsie?" he ventured.

At the sound of his voice she turned. She would know that voice anywhere.

"Charles?" She could hardly believe it; her mind must be playing tricks on her. Hearing her say his name brought him more joy than he thought possible. Being away from Downton meant there were no formalities between them anymore. No formalities and no hesitation. He crossed the room in an instant, gathering her up in his arms and lifting her clear off the bed, unable to stop himself from touching her for another miserable moment.

Suddenly he was there, enveloping her in a warm, desperate embrace. She gave a small cry of relief as she pressed her head to his chest. The scent of him was the most comforting thing she'd ever known. He was the ultimate reminder of her life, of who she was and how much she was loved.

His back protested, and gently he eased her down so that her toes touched the floor again. He had no intention of letting her go, not now and possibly not ever. She felt much the same, not caring how his arms were practically squeezing the air out of her. It didn't matter. She didn't know why he was there and she didn't question it_,_ either. She was simply grateful that he was.

He pressed his face into her tangled hair and murmured reverently. "Please come back; please come home."

"Downton is not my home," she whispered sadly. That wasn't what he meant.

"Then come back to me. I'll be your home."

He was crying, she realized, or very close to it. But he was talking nonsense; she couldn't possibly go back with him. She didn't have a life there anymore. Isn't that what she'd spent the last week trying to come to terms with?

"I don't understand."

He didn't even know where to start. He'd practiced what he wanted to say over and over again on the train, never quite sure of the best combination of words.

"Sit down," he said after a time, "and we'll talk."

He let her go so that she might sit on her bed, and he took a seat beside her. She looked so different. It didn't seem possible for a person to have changed so much in such a short time. It reminded him of her earlier insistence that Mrs. Hughes was gone. The dresses, the carefully pinned up hair, and way she always schooled her features. Now, in her slightly too large dressing gown with her tangled hair, she had a much softer, more fragile appearance, and her expression was one of equal parts elation and confusion.

"Charles?" She was so relieved that he was here, for she had missed him so, but she didn't know where to begin with his insistence that she return home. His hands reached out to squeeze hers as he fumbled for the words.

"I suppose I should start with the fact that I have retired-"

"You never did!" she interjected, stunned. Retired? Just like that? Why on earth would he retire?

"Yes. Retired," he said. She thought he sounded almost proud.

"I see," she said, trying to regain some composure. "And what brought on this desire for retirement?"

"I am getting on, Elsie, as you once pointed out."

"Yes, but I wasn't suggesting leaving service, for goodness sakes! What's happened? Are you unwell?" Like Lady Grantham, her mind had jumped to his health. It couldn't be his heart; could it? She thought of the ferocious way he'd hugged her and was sure it wasn't his knees or his back, but then what-

"I'm fine," he reassured her.

Despite his words, her distress continued to build. He couldn't possibly be fine; the Charles Carson she knew would never have just left the Crawleys for no good reason. What did he fear telling her? Had he come all this way to tell her he was ill? Dying?

"Oh, Charles, please be honest with me. What's happened?" She was close to tears at the mere idea of his being ill.

"Elsie! I'm not unwell, I promise you. I was just…not content."

She cocked her head at him. "Not content?" she repeated, calming down some.

"No. Not content at all. I found myself unwilling to continue that way of life, and as such, I have retired. The Crawleys were generous; I've a cottage on the estate to live in. Anna has already helped me to furnish it somewhat. Now the only matter that remains is you."

"Me?" she said weakly.

"Yes," he said softly. "I've come to ask you, if you would consider coming back to stay will me. We could spend our retirement together, you and I. Like…like it was supposed to be."

He waited patiently for her to absorb this piece of information, stroking her hand affectionately. Eventually she found her words again. "You did this for me?"

The truth of the matter really was that he'd done it for him, but he didn't know how to explain that exactly. "I did it…I did it because it was right, Elsie."

"You want me to leave here and come to live with you?" her voice was unreadable. Perhaps it was the shock. "But, how would we even…?"

"You would return with me to Downton. The cottage has two bedrooms. There's plenty of space for us both." His words were tumbling out in a rush now. "We would be married of course. It would be nothing improper. I could care for you, do whatever you needed, and you'd be closer to the people that you know. Please, Elsie. I'm asking you to consider it."

He was so warm and so generous, but he couldn't possibly understand the magnitude of what he was offering. Downton was everything to him; she knew he could never be happy playing caregiver to her. And to give up so much to do so!

"Charles…" she started sadly.

"Elsie, please. Just think about it."

But she was already sure. Her mind had already run this scenario, albeit with Mrs. Patmore in his place instead. "I can't let you do this for me," she insisted. "If I did, you would come to resent me, I'm sure of it. You would wake up one morning and hate me, Charles, and I couldn't bear that."

"I would thank you not to presume to tell me how I will feel about you," he said as evenly as possible.

She remained unmoved, almost angry that he would ask this when she had to turn him down. "I cannot let you give up your life in this way!"

"Elsie, I already have."

That rendered her silent.

"I've left Downton, and I've a little cottage of my own that I'm going home to. So I'm sitting here, asking you to please come back with me."

Emotion threatened to overwhelm her. There was nothing more she wanted than to say yes, but she couldn't bring herself to. He had done all this, thinking of her; someone had to think of him. "You could ask for your job back," she pointed out.

Mr. Carson took a deep breath. "But I don't want it back. I want to be with you."

As if to illustrate his point, he wrapped his arms around her, gratified when she sank into the embrace. She buried her face in his shirt, trying to process everything he'd said. They held on to each other for some time, and Mrs. Hughes felt herself torn in two very different directions.

"So I would go back with you?" she mumbled.

"That's right."

"And we would be married."

"That's right."

Her face crumpled up in frustration. "Charles, I have nothing to offer you. My life is nothing now."

He ran his free hand through her hair, smoothing away her distress. "But it doesn't have to be nothing," he told her. "Please Elsie, won't you please come home?"

It took an eternity for her to answer, as far as Mr. Carson was concerned. He stroked her hair absently as he waited, praying that it wouldn't be for the last time.

"Yes," she whispered finally. "Yes, I will."

* * *

**TBC... **


	17. Blackpool to Downton

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

The steady clicking and clacking of the wheels on the train tracks was almost comforting. Mrs. Hughes rested her head against the windowpane, listening to the sound of the miles disappearing. To her right sat Mr. Carson, his fingers still entwined in hers. They'd hardly let go of each other since that first desperate hug, other than a brief period when Martha had helped her dress. Poor Martha, she'd been rather shocked when they'd come downstairs, announcing their intentions of leaving. They hadn't explained the entire situation exactly, but their inability to let go of each other more than gave them away. David had returned from his errands to discover Mrs. Hughes entirely packed up and ready to depart. Martha had insisted they all eat first, before sending them off to catch the evening train. She had suggested that Mr. Carson might stay the night if he wished, but there didn't seem to be any point.

The train car was empty, save for them. Apparently the evening train to Yorkshire on a Wednesday night wasn't a particularly popular one. She squeezed his hand a little tighter, marveling at how quickly life could change. She hadn't imagined when she'd woken up that morning that she would ever be with him again, let alone all this.

The car jolted slightly, rattling the window and Mrs. Hughes bumped her head against the glass.

"Oh!"

He'd been dozing, but her cry made him sit up in alarm. "Are you all right?"

"It was more surprising than painful," she reassured him, rubbing her temple.

Mrs. Hughes elected not to rest her head back on the windowpane. Mr. Carson relaxed back in his seat, stroking her hand reflexively, soothing a non-existent wound. It was so pleasant just to sit next to him and hold his hand. She felt more alive than she had in a long time. It was almost frightening how important to her he was, how a simple touch or word from him could cause such a drastic change in her.

"Charles?" she asked. "What does it mean?"

He turned to face her fully. "What does what mean?"

She bit her lip, trying to figure out how to explain. "This…this retirement, marriage business… you coming to get me like…like something out of a novel. What does it mean?"

He thought long and hard about how to answer her. The depth of his affection was something that disconcerted him, and he had every desire not to put her off, not when they'd finally reached a solution they were both happy with. Eventually he settled on something of the truth. "It means we belong together, not apart," he told her.

"Mmm," she agreed, not content with his vague answer. "And?"

"And that I'm very fond of you."

"Fond of me," Elsie echoed. She seemed to accept this, or at least she decided not to push him anymore.

_Yes, fond of you_, thought Mr. Carson, _adore you, love you._ It wouldn't do to say such things, least of all while sitting in a train compartment. He was still thanking God that she'd agreed to come back at all; he would not frighten her away with such foolish talk. It didn't matter how he felt about her, all that mattered is that he wasn't going to lose her again.

"I'm very fond of you, too," she agreed, resting her head against his shoulder.

They sat in silence for a while, and she tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep. She felt tired all the time, despite sleeping more than she ever had before in her life. It didn't seem at all logical.

"They were nice you know," she said out of nowhere.

"What's that?"

"Martha and David, they were nice." He had not rescued her from some terrible situation. For some reason it was important to her that he understand that. She wasn't happy there - of that there was no doubt - but it hadn't been their fault.

"They seemed nice," he said, shifting slightly. He'd been dismayed to find her obviously unwell. He knew he shouldn't blame Martha or David for that; they seemed like reasonable people, but she was miserable with them. He couldn't help the tiny bit of resentment he held for these strangers that hadn't been able to give her the happy home she deserved.

And you think you can give her that? Niggling thoughts of how very unprepared he was for what he'd promised her kept appearing. He didn't know how to cook, not really, or how to keep a house, or what she might need his help with. He blushed to think of having to help her with her clothing or…well who knows what women needed, certainly not he. He would have to have Anna or Mrs. Patmore help. Surely they would agree to-

"They were nice," she repeated more firmly, interrupting his thoughts. "They were kind, and patient, and they tried to alleviate my guilt about being such a burden-"

"Elsie Hughes, you are not a burden."

She opened her mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. She didn't want them to quarrel, and it would be a silly pointless argument anyway. She would insist that she was, and he would insist she wasn't, until one of them gave up in frustration. Her more than likely, given the tears that came to her eyes just thinking about it. She swallowed thickly, trying to refocus.

"Well, they were still nice," she said dully. She thought of Martha's embrace just before they'd gotten on the train. Her cousin had hugged her tight, Elsie remembered the feeling of her scratchy wool coat against her cheek, and the knowing words whispered in her ear. She was welcome to return if she wanted to, but that Martha was sure Elsie would be much happier back at Downton with her _friend_. The woman's emphasis had made her slightly uncomfortable, but she was grateful for the well wishes and for everything they'd done for her.

"Elsie?" He sounded uncertain, maybe even fearful. She prickled in alarm. "Are you…having second thoughts about this? Do you wish you'd stayed?"

"No!" she said quickly, her voice cracking to her frustration. "No, what I mean is that I …" she stumbled, trying to find the right words to make him understand. "I wanted…I would…"

"Shhhh, slow down," he murmured. She heeded his advice, taking a deep breath, and then another.

"I would have been all right with them," she said eventually. "But I would rather be with you."

I wasn't all right without you, Mr. Carson thought to himself, but he didn't voice it. "I'm glad then," he told her, adjusting his arm around her waist to pull her closer.

"Mmhmm," she agreed sleepily. Her head slipped from his shoulder to his chest, and for a moment Mr. Carson didn't think there could be any better feeling in the world.

The rocking of the train, and the warmth of being held against him was enough to lull her finally to sleep. He gazed fondly at her, mesmerized by her softness, the peaceful expression on her face, and the gentle rising and falling of her breathing. She trusted him, even more than he'd dared to hope. The thought filled him with confidence, pushing his fears and insecurities about their future to the side. Even if she never loved him as he loved her, that trust would surely be enough.

_I'm going to do my best, Elsie_, he vowed silently, as the train sped on. _I promise._

* * *

When their train pulled into the Downton Station, Mr. Carson gently shook Mrs. Hughes awake. It was dark now, raining and cold, all facts he had not fully considered before deciding this journey was a good idea. A cab would be expensive, if they could even get ahold of one, but it was likely their best bet for getting them and their cases back to the house. They disembarked in silence, Mrs. Hughes clutching his arm tightly, still slightly drowsy from her nap.

Mr. Carson tipped his cap to one of the attendants, who had been kind enough to help them with their luggage. The cases formed a neat pile next to them, just under the awning so as not to be touched by the rain. Mr. Carson looked up and down the platform, trying to puzzle out in his head the best course of action.

Just when he was cursing himself for not thinking this through better, Anna burst out of the station door. "There you are!" she exclaimed brightly.

Mrs. Hughes turned at the sound of Anna's voice and Mr. Carson blinked in surprise to see the maid approach with Mr. Branson right behind her.

"How did you…?" stuttered Mr. Carson.

"We guessed," said Anna. "I am very pleased to see you, Mrs. Hughes."

Mrs. Hughes could only nod, as Anna gave her arm a familiar squeeze.

"It was raining, so we thought you might like the car, and it wasn't being used for anything, " explained Mr. Branson.

Mr. Carson beamed at Anna, unable to convey in words how grateful he was to her. She seemed to understand, and the lady's maid was all smiles to see Mrs. Hughes back. She looped her arm around the older woman's and started to lead them towards the car, chatting away as if nothing had happened. Mr. Branson just smirked silently at Mr. Carson as he helped him with the luggage. Mr. Carson couldn't even bring himself to be angry at the cheeky man's self-satisfied grin. He was just relieved the journey was to be over soon.

As they were not yet married, Mrs. Hughes did not go directly to the cottage that night with Mr. Carson, but instead with Anna, who had invited her to stay in the Bateses' spare room. It seemed that Anna, very meticulous in her planning, had anticipated this need. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were both grateful for the young woman's foresight and thoughtfulness. It was quite late by the time they made it to the Bateses' cottage, and Mr. Carson whispered Mrs. Hughes a hurried goodnight with a promise that he would come see her in the morning. Despite spending the night in another strange bed, Mrs. Hughes slept better than she had in several weeks.

Mr. Carson, on the other hand, had a terrible time of it. He spent the night tossing and turning, eventually giving up entirely to wander the empty cottage, wishing she were there. He felt silly. She'd agreed to come back already, all there was to do was to see Mr. Travis and sign a bit of paperwork and then she would be there with him. The difficult part was over. It was only formalities now, and yet he was still unsettled. Nothing was as sure as he wanted it to be.

He sat in the living room, trying to imagine that she was asleep safe and sound on the other side of the wall, instead of over in the Bateses' cottage. When that failed to soothe him, he permitted himself an old daydream, one that had recently come true on the train: her sleeping curled up against him, her head resting comfortably on his chest. It was only dreaming of this, which finally allowed him to fall asleep.

* * *

**TBC... **


	18. One Other Small Matter

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

Overnight the rain had frozen, leaving the ground slick with ice. Mrs. Patmore grumbled as she traversed the treacherous path far more slowly than she would have liked. The things she did for Elsie Hughes. The cook smiled to herself. She knew that she'd come back. She knew it.

Anna greeted her at the front door, and informed the cook that Mrs. Hughes was still sleeping before hurrying off to the Abbey with the hope that she wouldn't be too late to eat breakfast before Lady Mary rung. Mr. Bates had gone ahead early that morning with the message that Mrs. Hughes had indeed returned, and could Mrs. Patmore please she see to her while the Bateses' were busy seeing to their employers. Mrs. Patmore had could not have been more delighted at the news.

"Anybody home?" Mrs. Patmore hollered cheerfully, setting her basket down in the kitchen. She knew perfectly well that Mrs. Hughes was still in bed, but was dying for her to wake up so she might speak with her.

"I said is anybody home?" she called again.

"Mrs. Patmore?" came the bleary reply from the bedroom.

"Why, Elsie Hughes, still in bed?! Lazy bones," laughed the cook.

Mrs. Hughes scrambled out of bed, rubbing her face and trying to get her bearings. She was in the Bateses' cottage; that much she remembered, at least. But she didn't know where anything was. "Mrs. Patmore?" she asked again.

"Calm down. I'm right here," said Mrs. Patmore, giving her friend a great hug. "Am I glad to see you!"

"What time is it?" asked Mrs. Hughes.

"No, 'How are you, Mrs. Patmore?' or, 'It's nice of you to come, Mrs. Patmore,' then?"

"Sorry," said Mrs. Hughes hastily. "How are you? I'm sorry, I'm still half asleep."

"I'm only teasing!" exclaimed Mrs. Patmore. "It's half past eight. Mr. and Mrs. Bates were both needed at the house, so I've brought you some breakfast."

"What about the breakfast at the house?" asked Mrs. Hughes, sitting back down for a moment.

"Oh, Daisy can take care of it by herself," Mrs. Patmore said proudly, "she's more than capable."

"Yes, but if you're here, then there's no senior staff member downstairs," Mrs. Hughes protested. "Surely-"

"Actually, there are two," interrupted Mrs. Patmore. "Mrs. Bute is there now, and Mr. Carson was there when I left."

"What?"

"Come on. We'll find you a proper dress and then you can come to the kitchen so we can have a chat," insisted Mrs. Patmore. "And you can eat some breakfast."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, and a short time later she was sitting in the kitchen, a warm cup of tea in her hands and a pile of toast in front of her. Mrs. Patmore had diligently filled her in on all the household changes since she'd been away, mostly how Mrs. Bute had given her the store cupboard key, a concession which Mrs. Patmore deemed "almost enough to make me like her, but not quite."

"But what is Mr. Carson doing at the house? He told me he'd already retired," Mrs. Hughes said finally, unable to keep the question inside any longer.

"Yes, well, he had, sort of. He just needs to put a few things in order; that's all."

Mrs. Hughes frowned. "What do you mean, 'sort of'? Put what things in order?"

Mrs. Patmore got the impression that she'd just stumbled into a very dangerous area. She took a long swig of her tea, endeavoring to choose her words carefully. "Nothing too big, just finalizing some things with the family. His replacement, and the like," she said airily. Somehow Mrs. Patmore did not think it wise to tell Mrs. Hughes the man was _announcing _his retirement to the staff at this very moment. Better to let the woman think that it had already happened.

"And who is his replacement? Mr. Barrow?"

"For now," said Mrs. Patmore with a sigh, "but he hasn't officially been given the job. I'm not sure what will happen. These things take time."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Hughes, not sounding entirely convinced. "And how did the Family take the news that Mr. Carson was leaving?"

"Well, I wasn't there, was I?" said Mrs. Patmore defensively. "But I'm sure they were very sad to see him go, and wished him all the best." It couldn't have been a more canned answer if she tried. Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips in frustration. It wasn't like Mrs. Patmore to be so cagy. Something wasn't quite right.

"You're not a very good liar, Mrs. Patmore."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean," said Mrs. Patmore.

"Hello?" Mr. Carson's voice came from the front hall. "Mrs. Patmore? Elsie?"

Mrs. Patmore felt a wave of relief wash over her. "Here's the man himself," she said, getting up to greet him. "You can talk to him."

Mr. Carson strode into the kitchen, pleased to see that breakfast had happened in his absence.

"Good morning, Elsie," he greeted her warmly.

"Good morning, Charles." It was bizarre to use such familiar terms in front of Mrs. Patmore, but she supposed they must get used to it.

Mrs. Patmore stood abruptly. "I was just telling Mrs. Hughes here about how you were tidying up some loose ends at the house," she said, looking pointedly at Mr. Carson. "And about how supportive _everyone_ was back when you announced you were leaving."

Mr. Carson nodded briefly at Mrs. Patmore, indicating that he understood her concern. He just wished she'd been a little subtler. It felt wrong to have such an obvious unspoken conversation right in front of Mrs. Hughes, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Yes, very supportive. Even his Lordship, Elsie. In the end."

"He wasn't happy in the beginning I'll wager," said Mrs. Hughes flatly. "Are you telling me he's come round?"

"He's…gotten used to the idea," said Mr. Carson. Or he was getting used to the idea, now that Mr. Carson had let the man know for certain he was not returning.

"Mr. Branson even helped the footmen and Anna furnish the cottage," added Mrs. Patmore brightly. Mr. Carson shot her a look. _No need to lay it on so thick._

"That was kind of him," said Mrs. Hughes, still not entirely unsuspicious. "And the staff, they took it well?"

"They did," said Mr. Carson, glancing at Mrs. Patmore to signal that they actually had. He'd announced it to them not half an hour before, but it seems the rumours in his absence preceded him and no one was truly surprised.

"It's quite the change," said Mrs. Hughes anxiously. Both heads of staff gone together and Mrs. Bute was capable, but not well liked. It didn't seem like a very ideal situation, but she supposed that wasn't her problem anymore.

"Indeed," agreed Mr. Carson. "But one they will adapt to."

"And what of…" - she couldn't bring herself to say "our" quite yet - "the cottage? Might I see it soon?"

"Of course," said Mr. Carson. "There is one other small matter to consider first, which I would like to discuss with you…" he left the words "in private" out as he threw a slightly irritated glance at Mrs. Patmore.

Mrs. Patmore gave a little start as she caught on. "Oh don't mind me," she said quickly. "I should be getting back to the house anyway, or there won't be any luncheon. I'll be by a little later if I can manage it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," said Mrs. Hughes. "And thank you for the breakfast."

"Not at all," called Mrs. Patmore over her shoulder as she scurried down the hall. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes waited until the cook was out the door before electing to speak.

"So this other matter," began Mrs. Hughes. "I assume you mean our marriage."

"Yes," said Mr. Carson evenly. "Would you care to take a walk?"

"I…all right," she said uncertainly, putting down her now empty teacup.

"Here," he said, offering her his arm. It was chilly outside, but he didn't plan on taking them very far from the house. He helped her into her coat and supplied her with her boots, which she laced herself in silence. She was not entirely sure of the point to this exercise, but if he wanted to take a walk, she would humour him. Donning her hat and the scarf that he insisted upon didn't take long. Mr. Carson pressed her cane into her right hand and took her left arm gently in his.

"Ready?"

She smiled up at him. "Certainly," she said softly.

They made their way down the lane, slowly, for the ice had yet to melt. For a while they just focused on walking, not talking about anything important. It was comfortable; even on the slippery ground, she felt secure between her cane and him. The air was brisk, but not unpleasantly so, as they wandered down the road behind the cottages.

Eventually her curiosity got the better of her. As they reached the top of a gentle hill, they slowed, and she couldn't help but ask. "Charles, are we going anywhere specific?"

The answer was no, he hadn't had a particular place in mind, but he spotted a large yew tree off the road and realized it was the same one that had offered him shelter the night this entire idea had first begun. That was as fitting as anything else, really.

"Just here," he said, guiding her off the road. Do you remember the giant yew tree at the hill just west of the Abbey?"

"Vaguely," she said, frowning. "The huge one that you can see from the house?"

"That's it," he said. "That's where we are."

"Charles, why are we here? To have a discussion of matrimony on a hill?"

He turned to face her, squeezing her hand and she immediately regretted the callousness of her words. "I…well, I just meant-" she stumbled.

"Elsie." His voice was warm and tender. The way he said her name made everything in the world stop for a minute, and it was only him. Him and her.

"Yes. As fate would have it, a discussion of matrimony on a hill," he said seriously. "I never did ask you properly. I know it's… a formality for us, but I thought you deserved a proper proposal. And the chance to change your mind if you want to."

"Go on, then."

He fished around in his pocket for the little pouch he knew was there and drew out a simple silver ring. Taking a calming breath, he knelt. The ground was cold and wet, but he was determined to do this properly. Even if she could not see the gesture, it would have bothered him no end not to make it. He took her hand and gently pressed the ring into it.

What he did not know was that Mrs. Hughes sensed immediately that he was no longer towering over her, but down on bended knee, and it caused her breath to catch in her chest. Hearing his gentle voice only confirmed what she already knew.

"Elsie, I know I can't offer you the kind of life you deserve, but I promise to take care of you - always. You must know that I care for you very deeply. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Her heart sped up as her fingers closed around the little band of metal. It was just a formality; there was no warning and no reason for the overwhelming fluttery feeling she felt, but it was there anyways. Even just going through the motions, he managed to be terribly romantic. She wondered if he had any idea how happy those words had made her.

"Of course I will, Charles," she said. He breathed an audible sigh of relief as he stood up, and she bit back a laugh. "Did you think I would say no?"

"Well, you could have," he smiled. He took her hand again, suddenly very serious. "You could refuse, Elsie, if you want to. We could arrange something else." It killed him to say it, but he didn't want her to feel pressured into it any more than she probably already was.

"I know that," she said firmly. "But I accept."

"Good." He could have kissed her in delight, but settled for pulling her into a tight hug, relief coursing through his veins.

She chuckled nervously. "Charles, you're squeezing the living daylights out of me."

"Sorry!" he exclaimed, loosening his grip immediately, " I just…"

"I was just worried about dropping this," she explained, holding up the ring. "And, well, breathing." She set her cane aside, leaning it against the tree trunk so she might touch the ring with both hands, exploring the smooth band.

"I'm not sure if it will fit you," he said, taking it from her. "It was my mothers. May I?"

She nodded, and he slipped it onto her finger. "It does, actually," she said, twisting it slightly so it sat more comfortably.

"Saves us having to adjust it, then," he said. "I didn't want to do this sitting in the Bateses' kitchen. I know it doesn't make sense, but I didn't."

"No, I understand." She reached out for him and he took her hand once more. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He noticed her shiver and was reminded of how cold it was outside. "We ought to head back."

Mrs. Hughes nodded, groping around for her cane, which she promptly knocked to the ground. She grumbled, but he bent calmly to pick it up for her. "Not to worry," he told her. "It's nothing of consequence."

He was right; it was nothing worth fussing over, but it irked her anyways. He put it in her hand and she accepted it graciously, before slipping her arm back into his. It's nothing, she told herself. Calm down. It's nothing.

But it was not 'nothing'. None of it was, much as she tried to tell herself otherwise. She swallowed hard and they started to make their way back.

"When?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Tomorrow, if possible. Lady Mary has it all arranged with Mr. Travis - the license and all the rest."

This amused Mrs. Hughes. "Has she now? Good thing I didn't say no."

"Lady Mary was optimistic, and for that I am grateful," said Mr. Carson diplomatically.

"Then so am I," said Mrs. Hughes. "And it means less time of my imposing on poor Anna and Mr. Bates."

"I don't think they mind having you, but yes, that would be good," agreed Mr. Carson.

They walked happily back to the Bateses' cottage, and Mrs. Hughes tried to absorb the fact that in less than twenty-four hours she would be Mrs. Carson. In name only, true, but the idea still warmed her all over. Mrs. Carson. Hadn't she always wanted to one day be Mrs. Carson?

* * *

**TBC... **


	19. Say Marriage of Convenience 1 More Time

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

The rest of the day passed quickly, a novelty for Mrs. Hughes, who had become accustomed to the hours dragging recently. Mr. Carson returned from his visit with Mr. Travis to assure her that everything was settled for the next morning; she would spend only one more night in the Bateses' house. Anna had popped in and out so many times Mrs. Hughes could hardly keep track of her. With Lady Mary's permission, nay, insistence, Anna spent the afternoon sorting out plans for the occasion. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes both asserted that there was to be minimal fuss, and Anna was very careful to keep her excitement contained. The wedding would be brief and simple, much as Anna's own had been, though possibly with a few more witnesses than had been present for her and Mr. Bates. Lady Mary at the very least had made herself perfectly clear in regard to one matter: she wasn't to miss it for the world.

Mrs. Hughes spent a short time going through her suitcases – she hadn't really seen fit to unpack properly before – searching for her Sunday clothing. She smiled in satisfaction at being able to tell easily which garments were which. Benefits of a small wardrobe, she supposed. Everything was familiar, though now not by its colour or pattern, but by the shapes or the fabric textures. She laid out her best skirt, shirt, and jacket over a chair so that Anna might press them for tomorrow. The only thing that puzzled her was her scarves: silk, both of them, and precisely the same size, but she knew they were two different patterns. She would have to come up with some way to tell which was which.

"Mrs. Hughes? It's Mrs. Patmore!"

For the second time that day, the cook's voice came piercing through the Bateses' cottage. Absently, Mrs. Hughes thought she was going to have to remind her friend that she was not also deaf. She was unlikely to be successful in changing Mrs. Patmore's behaviour, however; Daisy had tried that appeal frequently over the years, to no avail.

Mrs. Hughes found her way to the doorway of her bedroom and leaned against it, crossing her arms. "It strikes me, Mrs. Patmore, that you don't have to call me Mrs. Hughes anymore. You might call me Elsie."

"Oh, I could never," said Mrs. Patmore, not sounding entirely convinced.

"I insist," replied Mrs. Hughes gently. "Besides, even Mr. Carson calls me Elsie."

Mrs. Patmore gave a snort. "Well, that's _quite_ different, now; isn't it?" she said gleefully.

Mrs. Hughes frowned at the cook's tone. "I don't know what you mean by _that_."

"That's not what I hear!" said Mrs. Patmore excitedly. Her delight at the news was impossible to contain. "What's this about a wedding then? And where was my invitation? Lost in the mail I suppose?!"

"Mrs. Patmore!" exclaimed Elsie.

"Now, here am I thinkin' my name is now 'Beryl'" corrected Mrs. Patmore, thoroughly amused.

"Beryl!" repeated Mrs. Hughes, her indignation still firmly in place. Mrs. Patmore laughed.

"So, did he tell you that he loves you?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "It's not like that." It may have been true that he loved her, in his own specific way. That much, she thought she understood now. But to mistake it for the type of romantic love Mrs. Patmore was insinuating - well, that was a dangerous notion; one that would only lead to her own heartbreak if she were not very careful. He was marrying her out of kindness, out of friendship and obligation, and she was grateful to him, for she thought it far more than she deserved. But Mrs. Patmore didn't understand that; she couldn't possibly. Whatever Mrs. Hughes might secretly desire, she and Mr. Carson simply weren't like _that_.

"I'd say it is like that! No man does what he did without-"

"Mrs. Pat- Beryl. _Please_," Mrs. Hughes implored, and Mrs. Patmore's face fell slightly. She had expected to find a joyous Mrs. Hughes, not this serious, anxious one.

Mrs. Hughes lowered her voice. "It's a marriage of convenience and it would be…_unwise_ to think of it any other way."

Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes. "Well, you're staying and you're getting married tomorrow. Am I allowed to be happy about that much at least?"

Mrs. Hughes finally gave a small smile. "Yes, you are."

"Good," huffed Mrs. Patmore good-naturedly, "because I am." She paused for a moment. "You are going to permit me to come; aren't you?" she said, sounding somewhat hurt.

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "I would be honoured. But it is-"

"Not to be a fuss," droned Mrs. Patmore. "Yes, I got the speech from Anna."

Mrs. Hughes thought Mrs. Patmore sounded rather disappointed, but knew she her next request would cheer her up. "No fuss," she agreed. "But there is something rather important you might do for me - if you're willing?"

The cook was all ears. "Oh?"

"You might help me tomorrow?"

"Getting dressed and the like?"

"I can dress myself now," said Mrs. Hughes, a tinge too defiantly. "But I would rather have…that is to say…"

"Well, spit it out, woman! I haven't got all day!"

Mrs. Patmore had been positively dreadful at asking for _anything_ when her own eyesight had been failing and Mrs. Hughes thought her hypocritical to be so impatient now.

"You might help me get to church," said Mrs. Hughes, "or more specifically… up the aisle of church. If you wouldn't mind."

Mrs. Patmore gaped. "Hold on. You're asking _me_ to give you away?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Technically someone ought to. Marriage of convenience or not, it is the proper way to do it, and I think Mr. Carson would like that. And besides, I'd much rather walk up the aisle with you than alone with this infernal stick!"

Mrs. Patmore made a noise of derision. "Well, now that's a flattering offer if I ever heard one."

Mrs. Hughes faltered somewhat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest-"

"Listen," Mrs. Patmore interrupted. "I would be happy to. To walk you up the aisle, to help you with what ever you need. You only need say."

"Thank you." To her surprise and embarrassment, her lip trembled and she felt overwhelmed by her friend's easy kindness. Mrs. Patmore put a hand on her shoulder.

"What's this?" the cook said soothingly. "There's nothing to be fussin' about. You're marrying Mr. Carson tomorrow, and it will all go fine. Besides, all brides worry the night before their wedding, probably," Mrs. Patmore was blabbering now, but it was comforting nevertheless. "And Elsie Hughes, if you say 'marriage of convenience' one more time, friend or not, I will wash your mouth out with soap!"

Mrs. Patmore did have a flair for the dramatic in these situations, and Mrs. Hughes gave a tight smile. "I'd just rather we not make it into something that it isn't," she explained.

Mrs. Patmore shook her head incredulously. She never had entirely understood if there was an element of romance between the housekeeper and the butler. Just when she was finally sure there must be, they insisted otherwise. Fine. Let them carry on with whatever madness they thought they were engaging in; they were both happier now, at any rate.

"As you wish," said Mrs. Patmore, with an air of disbelief. It was growing late, and Mrs. Patmore needed to be back to the house soon. "I'll be back in the morning to help you get everything sorted," she promised. "And you may have ducked out of a proper wedding breakfast, but don't think there won't be food for at least the two of you afterwards. I don't fancy Mr. Carson a very competent cook!"

"Nor would I be, even at the best of times," Mrs. Hughes smiled sheepishly, "but we'll have to figure out something."

"And you will," Mrs. Patmore assured her. "I best be getting back, but I'll be seeing you tomorrow. Bright and early."

"Of course."

Mrs. Patmore got up to go and Mrs. Hughes listened to her fuss with her coat and her boots by the front door. A sort of guilt washed over her, the same guilt she used to feel after lying to her mother, or whenever she wrote to Lorna claiming she was too busy to visit.

"Wait!" Mrs. Hughes called out.

Mrs. Patmore turned to her friend to find Mrs. Hughes twisting her fingers together in that way she had when sometimes on the verge of confession.

"What is it?"

Mrs. Hughes could see her friend in her mind's eye: impatient, confused, and waiting to find out what possible reason Elsie could have to be holding up her departure. It almost wasn't worth it. Apparently, speaking her heart was never to come easily to Mrs. Hughes, but still she tried.

"Beryl, the stick is not…well it's not why."

"Elsie, I haven't the faintest _clue_ what you're on about."

"The reason I asked you to walk with me … It's not the stick. It's because … well, because I wanted…"

"Because you wanted…?"

"I know it's just-" Mrs. Hughes fumbled for what she wanted to tell her friend. "I know it's not…"

Mrs. Patmore had stopped pulling on her boots and walked back towards Mrs. Hughes, no longer in any great hurry to be back to the Abbey.

Mrs. Hughes thought of her father, long dead now, when he had given Lorna away to be married. She thought of Lorna and Douglas, not capable of taking her in when she'd needed them most. She thought of Martha and David who, she was sure, would always have been more strangers than family to her.

"Beryl, a woman's family should give a bride away, whatever her age, and you are family to me. And that's why I asked you," Mrs. Hughes said finally.

There was a beat, a moment of silence where she felt her words hang in the air between them. When Mrs. Patmore replied, her voice sounded a little muffled with emotion.

"Elsie Hughes, that very well may have been the most sentimental thing I've ever heard you say."

"Well, then don't make me say it again," begged Mrs. Hughes.

"Very well," laughed Mrs. Patmore, pulling her friend into a hug. "You've come back to family, Elsie, not left it."

"Yes," Mrs. Hughes smiled, her cheek still pressed against the cook's scratchy wool coat. "Now, I'm sure you must be getting on."

"Yes, I ought to be," agreed Mrs. Patmore, letting her go. "I'll say goodbye."

"Goodbye, Beryl."

* * *

**TBC...**


	20. Wedding Bells

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

True to form, Mr. Carson woke before dawn on the day of his wedding, having spent the night in broken sleep, thinking of Mrs. Hughes. Eventually he resigned himself to lying awake, watching the rising sun slowly light his bedroom. His bedroom. And just on the other side of the wall, what would be her bedroom. Not unlike Downton, where they had shared the wall that divided the men and women's corridor. And yet…so unlike Downton, for this cottage was to be their own. Their own rooms. Their own lives. No sharp raps on doors would wake them at ungodly hours to begin their days. No bells would summon them from room to room. No more stairs to traipse up and down, endlessly ferrying trays or towels or telegrams. No more late nights poring over their ledgers or making endless lists of what must be done.

Mr. Carson wondered what regular people did all day without such things. Whenever he got more than a half-day of in Yorkshire he almost never knew what to do with himself.

But he would have a wife before the day was out, and she would need him. And it wouldn't all change, surely? He would still go to church with her, and now they might walk together all the time, not only on the odd occasion. And they would still take their meals together, and now they might debate all the topics usually deemed unsuitable for the servant's hall table. And perhaps they would speak, if she wished, of all things he had been too afraid to ask her when they were still in service together. And perhaps one day she would find herself loving him, as hopelessly and intensely, as he loved her.

* * *

The church bells had never rung for her before. Elsie Hughes had never truly believed they would ever ring for her. She had seriously considered Joe Burns, twice even, but known in her heart both times that what he offered was not the life for her. She had long ago accepted a fate of spinsterhood without discontent or unhappiness.

But that morning, as she clutched Beryl's arm, hearing them beckoning her to the sanctuary made her heart swell with a profound joy. When she was a very little girl her mother had cuddled her close and explained how the bells before a wedding would ward off any evil spirits and bring good wishes. And while it had been a long time since Mrs. Hughes had put any stock in evil spirits, she certainly did have a wish, and she wished it then. She wished she were about to do the right thing. With every step that brought her closer to him she wished. She wished that he would not regret marrying her. She wished their life together would prove to be enough for him. She wished for some kind of divine surety, that this was the path they were supposed to be walking.

Snowflakes started to fall, and Mrs. Hughes tipped her head heavenward. Mrs. Patmore just clicked her tongue and mumbled something about the weather.

* * *

The church was chilly, as it always was this time of year, but the idea that he was there, that he was waiting for her, warmed her immensely. Knowing this, she couldn't keep from smiling, and perhaps just now it didn't matter. She was permitted to be happy about marrying him, and didn't care if she looked the fool by beaming at the prospect.

The bride herself was the only person in church who did not have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Carson's look of open adoration. To everyone else it was clear as day. With every step she took closer, her beauty was even clearer to him in a way he'd never let it be before. But he could now. She was going to be his wife, and a man might look at his wife like that without embarrassment or shame.

There was a tiny step up that lead to the altar, and Mrs. Hughes held tightly to Mrs. Patmore with her left hand, as she knew to do. She was sure Mr. Carson was standing beside her. She didn't need to see him to be assured of his presence; she simply felt it, perhaps more keenly than she ever had before. She longed to reach out and touch him, but dared not, knowing that she would have to wait until Mr. Travis joined their hands.

Mr. Travis cleared his throat, subtly but enough to drag Mrs. Hughes into the present and the service was properly begun.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of his company to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church: which holy estate Christ and beautified with his presence and the first miracle he wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men: and therefore not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined."

Years of listening to Mr. Travis drone on uninspiringly on lessons and virtues from the pulpit had not deadened either Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes to the importance of the words that he said now. The immense weight of the promise they were about to make could not be denied. Mr. Carson found him eager to make his, to tell her of his commitment to her. Previously, she had not let him declare himself. Here she would have no choice but to listen and accept his words of love and devotion.

Mr. Travis carried on. "If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

The beat of silence was short, for no protest from their little crowd of witnesses - Anna, Lady Mary, and Mrs. Patmore - was imaginable. Perhaps all three of them were even more sure of the mutual love they were witnessing than the couple themselves.

Mr. Travis turned the question to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. "I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do confess it. For be ye well assured, that if any persons are joined together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful."

There was no doubt that their marriage was lawful, and Mrs. Hughes knew in her heart that she loved him without question. So much that she'd left him thinking that she didn't, in order to protect him, and so much that she'd come back the moment he'd called for her, unable to truly accept her life without him. Her vows would tell him, surely, that all that was true.

Mr. Travis turned to Mr. Carson first, asking: "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

All of those things, Elsie, he thought to himself. All of those things if you'll let me.

His deep rumbling voice filled the hall in answer. "I will."

And so Mr. Travis turned to Mrs. Hughes and posed to her a very similar question. Mrs. Hughes' voice, normally so clear and confident, almost whispered her reply as if it were more of a private prayer. "I will."

Mr. Travis seemed satisfied with her quiet answer. "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

This question was rhetorical, for which Mrs. Patmore was thankful. While she was not openly weeping just yet, it was probably only a matter of time, and she was pleased she didn't have to say anything in response. She simply gave Mrs. Hughes hands over to Mr. Travis and took a step back. The Reverend carefully brought their right hands together, and Mrs. Hughes smiled to feel Mr. Carson's large steady hand enveloping hers. Mr. Travis read the vows quietly and Mr. Carson repeated them in that low, authoritative and yet tender voice that she loved so much. "I, Charles Edward Carson, take thee, Elsie Jane Hughes, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

He had always loved her, and now, as far as he was concerned, he finally had the proper means to show her precisely how much. There was no greater promise a man could make to a woman, and he hoped she was closer to understanding, closer to accepting, his love for her now. They loosed their hands and then it was Mrs. Hughes's turn. She offered him her right one upturned and he graciously placed his in hers for her. " I, Elsie Jane Hughes, take thee, Charles Edward Carson, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

The ring had been returned to Mr. Carson the night before, leaving Mrs. Hughes wearing it as an engagement ring only a few short hours. Now, as he slipped it on her finger, it was no longer a promise of marriage, but instead a sealing of it.

"With this ring, I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Mr. Travis placed a gentle hand both their shoulders and they took their cue to kneel. "And now let us pray…"

The words of familiar prayers and of the conventional blessings passed in a blur from them both, and before they knew it Mr. Travis had mercifully joined their hands together again.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

No man, and no hardship, thought Mr. Carson firmly to himself. She was his wife now, and nothing would be permitted to tear them apart.

It was almost over, and Mr. Carson squeezed her hand gently as Mr. Travis read out the final prayer. "For as much as Charles and Elsie have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving a ring, and by joining hands; I pronounce that they are Man and Wife, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

She smiled at him, and to her surprise felt his warm hand on her cheek, tipping her head gently up towards him. Surely he didn't mean to…but then ever so softly his lips brushed against hers. It was a tender, fleeting kiss, and just as quickly as it started, it was over. It was strange how something could feel so wonderful and yet be disappointing at the same time.

She felt his hand at the small of her back, gentle pressure from his thumb and fingers, subtly guiding her as they turned towards the congregation, so that she ended up facing the in right direction. And as they took their first steps together back down the aisle, Elsie felt a great surety that just as she had always guided him, so, too, would he always lead her in the right direction.

* * *

**TBC...**


	21. This One Belongs to Us

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

Afterwards there had been hugs and kisses and well wishes from Anna, and Lady Mary and a (still slightly weepy) Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Travis had papers for them to sign, which momentarily filled Elsie with dread, until Charles reassured her that it would perfectly fine and she only need scrawl her initials. He dipped the pen for her and guided her hand to the correct line where she managed to form her distinctive curly "EH" from memory. Then, after thanking Mr. Travis happily, the Carsons found themselves trudging back to their cottage for the first time.

The snow that had started that morning had only increased in intensity, and the wind had picked up as well, so they spoke very little on their way back, instead leaning in on each other for support and warmth. After about twenty minutes Charles leaned over and murmured into her ear, "This one, this one belongs to us."

_Belongs to us. _

Immediately Elsie resisted the idea, for the cottage belonged to him. It was gift from Lord Grantham for his lifetime of service and he was simply sharing it with her. There would have been no cottage for her, had she retired on her own terms. The Grantham's were kind, and had expressed a willingness to keep her Downton to stay if her family had really not been able to take her in, but a place on the estate was great privilege, extended to only to the most loyal of butlers and she knew it. This cottage most certainly belonged to Charles. She almost corrected him, but then the words of their wedding ceremony came back to her…

'…all my worldly goods I thee endow.' He had married her. Nothing belonged to him, everything belonged to _them. _

"There is a little gate at the front," he told her. "It doesn't lock, but there's a little latch." He lifted it and swung it open from them.

"What colour is the gate?"

"Black," he told her. "Wrought iron, and it swings in. And after that there are only a few steps to the house."

The path to the house was currently a little treacherous with all the ice, and what's more he didn't want to stop holding on to her, so he wrapped his arm around her tightly and led her up the front steps.

"Here we are, Mrs. Carson. Our home." The pride in his voice was unmistakable. Finally things were going to be as they always should have been. She reached out to touch the door and found the handle, but before she could open it, he stopped her.

"What is it? Charles, it's freezing out here."

He cupped her cheek again with his hand, as he had in church. Elsie felt her stomach flip at his touch.

"Elsie, did you mind very much when I kissed you?" he asked quietly. "I hadn't asked and-"

"No," she interrupted. "I didn't." Suddenly she wasn't cold at all, but desperate from him to kiss her again.

"Then would you humour me and let me carry you over?"

"What?"

"Well, isn't that how it's done?" Charles said plainly.

"But your back," Elsie worried.

"Will be fine," he insisted. Taking her incredulous smile for consent, he picked her up and carefully lifted her over the threshold, setting her down on the other side.

"There," he said, shutting the door behind them. "That wasn't so terrible, was it?"

"It was perfectly lovely," she told him, before blushing at her forwardness. Flirting with him had always been easy, but she found it awkward now that she couldn't read his reaction to it. She turned away from him so he might not see how embarrassed she was, pulling off her hat and her coat.

"There are hooks on the wall to your right," he informed her, letting her find them herself. "And it seems we have elves."

She wrinkled her nose. "Elves?"

"Or a Mrs. Patmore. There seems to be a basket here on the table, and while I have not opened it, I'll eat my hat if it's not tea."

Elsie smiled. "She did promise something to that effect yesterday."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not quite yet. I'd rather see the house first, if it's all the same to you."

"Certainly," said Charles.

But it was cold still, and his first priority became the fires, which she could not help him with. She sat in one of the living room chairs as he worked, feeling rather useless. It would be completely beneath him or her to build a fire at Downton. That was a task for kitchen maids and hall boys. Now all tasks fell to them, and there was no longer a hierarchy or structure to slot every chore into. Having spent most of her adult life in service, Elsie had not considered how bizarre that might be, and for Charles it was certain to feel even more so. She wondered if she ought to say something, as she listened to him fuss with the fireplace, but elected not to. It wasn't something she really wanted to draw attention to.

Even after decades of not building his own fires, he certainly still remembered how and soon the room was warmer and more inviting. There is a woodshed in the back, but he knew it to be only half full, and half of that was rotting. More would have to be split soon. Perhaps retirement _would_ be as much work as service, Charles thought to himself.

But it would be work he was for himself and for her, not work for the lives of others. He didn't think that would make a large difference really – work was work - but when he saw her smile and slip off her shawl, he felt a very different satisfaction from the one he'd felt serving the family.

"Warm enough?"

"Certainly, Charles," she told him. "Now will you show me?"

He put the grate up carefully, before leading her over the fireplace so she might run her fingers over the stones and the mantel. Charles didn't know much about masonry, but it seemed well made. There was a dip in the floor around it, and a grate, so he didn't fear her accidentally walking into it.

"Very nice," she remarked, running her hands along the edge. "Big, too, it seems."

"Takes up about half the room, or at least it looks that way," he said. "But nice," he added quickly. "Shall we move on?"

And so he led her about the house, giving her time to sort out doorways and steps between locations. The house was small enough that it was actually feasible to count how many steps it took from the fireplace to the chairs in the living room, to the hallway and back. She marked out doorways with her cane and listened to his explanations of what everything looked like, from the picture hung in the kitchen to the upholstery on the chairs. She was so used to sweeping rooms with her eyes, taking in every object at a pace most people would find downright alarming, but this was so slow, so different. The pride and softness in his voice as he explained every last detail granted her some necessary patience as she learned each corner of their little home with her cane and her fingertips and her imagination.

When they got to the kitchen she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, and Charles noticed how weary she looked.

"I'll made tea if you like," he offered, thinking perhaps they ought to take a break.

"Please," she replied. She was tired, though it was barely mid-afternoon.

"It's a lot to take in," he said. She frowned slightly, not knowing precisely what he was referring to. "The house, I mean," he added.

"It shouldn't be; it's just a cottage" she replied, her patience with herself fading.

"But it is," he pointed out. "It's a lot of…new information, presented in a different way." He was trying, in a rather roundabout fashion, to reassure her that it was all right to be overwhelmed by everything, which was delicate, seeing as she refused to admit that she was. She didn't reply. She simply listened as Charles unpacked the basket Mrs. Patmore had left them.

"Mrs. Patmore has outdone herself," he declared. "There is more than tea; there's enough food in here to feed an army."

Elsie smiled. "Did you expect anything different?"

"I suppose not. Well, what will it be then? Ham? Toast? That vile contraption of yours has made its way into the kitchen. I suppose that's Anna's idea of a joke…"

Elsie laughed, "You don't mean that, surely."

He had only been half kidding. "Well," Charles mused. "If _you_ can find a way to use it without burning yourself or the house down, then be my guest, but I'll make some toast for use the usual way if you don't mind."

"I don't; I don't," she smiled, as the kettle whistled.

They had a lovely relaxing tea. As they were finishing and tidying up, Charles started to describe the view out the kitchen window, when he noticed she didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Elsie?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you all right? It's only…I can't really tell if you're-" he didn't want to say 'listening.' That seemed insulting.

"Present," she finished for him softly. "And you're correct; I'm not. I'm rather tired, I'm afraid. Perhaps you might tell me later?"

"Later, then," he promised her. "Why don't I show you your room, and you might have a rest or unpack some of your things. We can talk about everything else later."

"I would prefer that," she admitted. She stood, and without waiting for him, found her way to the doorway of her bedroom with her cane.

"This one is mine, correct? And yours is the one closer to the front door?" she asked him.

"That's right. Well done."

She smiled tightly. "And my things?"

"Are all in here," he reassured her. "Sitting on the bed, to your right. The wardrobe is right beside it."

"Hmm," she murmured, touching the wardrobe, and pulling out its drawers experimentally. "Thank you."

He wasn't quite sure what she needed him to do. He didn't want to offend her by asking, and he didn't want to abandon her by staying silent. He chose speaking, though in the most timid tone imaginable of the man. "Do you need any help? Putting things away?"

"I shouldn't think so. Probably better that I do it myself anyways." As if to prove her point, she snapped open the clasps on one of her bags.

"Right," said Charles, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

He turned and moved to shut the door, but she stopped him. "Charles?"

"Yes?" he asked, hoping she might have thought of some way he could be useful to her. He turned to find her lying on the bed, her hands spread across the quilt adorning it.

"This bed…is _enormous_." It had to be at least twice the size of the one she'd slept in back at Downton.

"Yes, well…" stammered Charles, slightly flustered by the image of her sprawled out on the bed. It was not intentionally provocative on her part, but it was still her lying down (something he'd never actually seen ever before, now that he thought of it) across a bed, looking positively beautiful.

"Yes, well?" she prompted, sitting back up.

"That's what the Abbey had available to give us," he finished, hoping his voice did not belie how flustered she'd made him.

"So yours in the other room is the same," she concluded, sounding pleased.

He couldn't just lie to her. "Well, no…the one in my room is the same as the bed I had at Downton."

She frowned at this. "But then this ought to be your room."

"Why?" he countered quickly.

"Because you are a larger _person_ than I, Charles," she said, as if he were completely daft. "And this was your cottage before it was our cottage so it doesn't make any sense that you would choose-"

"Maybe I like the size of my old bed?" he argued, though that was positively not true.

"I find that difficult to believe," she retorted, recognizing his defensive tone immediately.

"You know how I dislike change," he pointed out. That was true; wasn't it? She couldn't argue with that.

"And yet, in a span of three weeks, you left your post, retired, moved into a cottage, and are now trying to convince you me you chose to sleep in a tiny bed over this one?"

"Is that so hard to believe? Can you not take me at my word?"

"Do you expect me to believe after a life in service, in a bed that barely fit you-" he made a scoffing noise and she scowled. "Recall that I've seen you it, so don't you pretend it was anything otherwise."

"Are we to spend the first evening of our marriage arguing over the sizes of beds?" he growled.

"It's not about the _size_ of the beds!" she shot back incredulously. "It's about…oh I don't even know what it's about!"

"Well, if you ever figure it out, do let me know!"

She pursed her lips, but said nothing. He took a deep breath and decided it was time for him to leave her alone. "Let me know if you need me," he said, as evenly as possible. "For anything."

She nodded and turned away. She had things to put away.

* * *

Mrs. Patmore had given them provisions for supper, which they ate together both ignoring completely their argument over the bedrooms. He wanted to tell her it was only right for him to give the more comfortable sleeping accommodations to her, as any gentleman would. Holding him back was knowing that his choice of bedroom revealed he'd taken for granted she would come and live with him. She would catch on to that immediately, and might not like him much for it.

She couldn't quite figure out why it bothered her so much, but it did. It was upsetting that he was so willing to make himself uncomfortable, so unnecessarily, for her sake. But she didn't know how to go about changing that, stubborn man that he was; perhaps it was better to let this particular thing go.

They made small talk about stocking the kitchen more fully tomorrow, about Mrs. Patmore's delicious meal, and about the view of the sunset out the back kitchen window. She let herself be distracted again by his lovely voice, painting a beautiful picture of their back yard. Supper turned into a cup of tea, and a cup of tea turned into yawning. By the end of the evening their argument was left mostly forgotten, and the washing up was left to tomorrow.

Even though they were both clearly exhausted, neither really wanted to part ways. They lingered in the hall between their bedrooms, both out of energy for conversation but still longing for each other's presence. There was no protocol, no rules, no anything to guide how to say goodnight. He found himself staring at her in a way he'd never dared to before. He loved her so, but was fearful he might ruin the precarious balance they had by saying it out loud.

Elsie could sense they were waiting for something, but what she wasn't sure. Eventually she reached out hesitantly, touching his chest with the flat of her palm. "Charles?"

He took her hesitant touch as permission to wrap his arms around her. This at least was familiar territory for them. She felt so right, pressed against his chest. "Yes?"

"I...I just wanted to say thank you… for everything."

"I'm glad you're here," he told her sincerely. She was so soft in his arms and she looked so lovely. He desperately wanted to kiss her. Unable to resist, he placed a very chaste kiss on her temple before letting her go. "Good night, Elsie."

"Good night, Charles." And with one long lingering glance at her, they went to their respective bedrooms.

* * *

He was already much more familiar with her, and as Elsie got ready for bed she found herself both elated and concerned. They had grown quite close over the years, as each other's confidants and dearest friends. She was terribly proud to be his wife.

But how was she going to be his wife?

What did Charles Carson want in a wife?

She lay there, unable to sleep, recalling the way her hands felt when surrounded by his, how gently he'd slipped the ring onto her finger that morning. She twisted it, uneasy. Charles was a fine man, she thought, an obstinate one at times, but an upstanding one without question. Gentle and intelligent and gallant.

Gallant.

Was that why he'd done all this? Was taking care of her a sense of duty for him? Was it terrible if it was? Yes. Yes, it was. That wasn't how they were, and she had said from the beginning being an obligation for him was out of the question. But somehow he had convinced her to agree to this, and she had found herself doing so very easily, because she _wanted_ it. She wanted him, more than anything. The one constant in her life that never failed to make her feel safe, respected, and loved.

She had let that cloud her judgment. She didn't deserve him. He had been so giving and she took. Selfishly. Thinking only of what she wanted, of what would make her feel better.

He gave.

She took.

And now she was his wife.

She buried her head in her hands. It was too late, too late to take it back. She should have refused him. He'd given her a chance to - several, really. He'd probably hoped she'd take one, and then she hadn't.

_Elsie Hughes you are a selfish, foolish person._

* * *

**TBC...**


	22. Life, Altered

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. This chapter deals with depression, consider yourself forewarned. **

* * *

Charles had never appreciated Mrs. Patmore's cooking talents more in his life. The woman churned out six meals a day and then some, including suppers that looked and tasted fit for royalty. Now Charles stood in his own kitchen, trying to get the hang of flipping a pancake and hoping it would be fit for human consumption.

He managed it eventually (no need to tell Elsie it was his third try), and she gave him a watery smile when he put it on the table in front of her.

"Thank you," she said. She always said that, no matter what he put in front of her, but pancakes were the most difficult breakfasted he'd attempted yet, and he was eager for her opinion. Apprehensively, she poked at it with her knife and fork, eventually taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully.

"Well?"

"It's good, Charles. Very good." Her words were kind, but her tone was flat, leaving Charles wondering if she was indeed telling him the truth. He took a bite of his own. They seemed fine to him.

"Did you sleep all right?" he asked her, as she poked at her food.

"Fine, thank you."

He'd never known her to be quite so clammy. He fished around for more questions, but figured they would likely only get him more token pleasantries.

"Elsie-"

"I'm actually not very hungry," she interrupted, setting her cutlery down. "If you'll excuse me."

"Oh..." She was already up and heading back into her bedroom, leaving him standing in the kitchen not knowing if he should protest or not. She'd had only three bites. He starred at her closed bedroom door for a little while before returning to the kitchen to finish his breakfast. And then hers.

* * *

Charles had thought it would be impossible to avoid each other in a house so small, but when she shut herself away in her bedroom it was almost like being alone. She came out for meals, she was pleasant and polite, but she never spoke more than necessary. He asked her if she'd like him to read the paper to her. Maybe go for a walk? Come to town with him the next time he went? Every time she quietly dismissed the suggestion.

"There's no need, Charles." He was getting so weary of those words. Them, and "not today, thank you."

He couldn't help but feel like he'd broken some cardinal of rule of being a husband that he wasn't aware of. She didn't seem angry with him. Every time she spoke she was kind and placid. But the words were always empty; they weren't the words of the woman he knew. He almost wanted to make her angry, just to see if it were possible. An angry wife, shouting at him, might be preferable to this quiet, ghost-like person who had made herself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

* * *

Even knocking on her door seemed like an invasion of her space these days, but there was nothing for it.

"Elsie? Are you up? We're going to miss the service."

He heard mumbling, which he took as an invitation to enter. She was still in bed, when she should have been dressed already.

"Elsie, we're going to miss church if you don't move along," he said as gently as he could manage.

"I'm not going," she protested. "I don't feel well."

That had been her excuse last week. And the week before.

"Elsie, won't you please get out of bed? You promised me last week you'd go."

"I lied then. Leave me be, Charles."

She buried herself in the covers, and Charles was at a loss. He was sure if she would only come outside she might feel better, but she insisted otherwise. He couldn't just order her, could he? It felt as if she were hiding from him all of the time. An alarming thought occurred to him.

"Elsie? Is it possible you're ill? Maybe Dr. Clarkson ought to come."

"No!"

It was the most vehement response he'd received from her in weeks and it startled him a little. Was that the wrong thing to suggest? Perhaps it was rude. He was only worried about her, and if he couldn't figure out what was wrong, perhaps the doctor could.

"If you say so," he relented.

"And you're not to speak to him about me, please." The pillows muffled her voice, but he could tell it was shaky.

That was the next thing he was going to ask her, and clearly she'd anticipated that. He put his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her to face him and she did not resist. She was beautiful to him, always, but he worried about her so.

"Elsie, I'm just concerned about you; that's all."

She took a deep breath. "I'm perfectly fine. Go to church, Charles. Please."

"All right."

"And you won't speak to Dr. Clarkson?"

Charles suppressed an audible sigh. "If that's what you want."

"That's what I want," she affirmed.

Whatever it meant to be a good husband, he was fairly sure disobeying a direct request wasn't it. Perhaps he might bring it up to Dr. Clarkson without mentioning her specifically? He quickly dismissed the idea. That would be impossible, and she would be sure to find out about it, somehow. Then how could she ever trust him?

For the third Sunday in a row, Charles went to church alone.

* * *

She made him turn away every visitor who came to call. He protested, but she insisted, making flimsy excuse after flimsy excuse. He stopped pressing the issue. What else could he do?

She was too pale and too thin, and most days, she wouldn't leave her bed, no matter how much he coaxed her. Whenever she refused to get up for a meal, he brought it to her in her room, hoping she'd eat something, anything. He no longer took it personally when she refused something he'd slaved over; he just despaired silently whenever she sent him away.

Sometimes he snuck in when she was sleeping, which she did at all hours of the day now. Occasionally when she awoke she'd let him stay. She'd hold his hands and say nothing. It was the only time he felt useful, those few moments where she let him touch her. He was bold enough to stroke her hair one evening and she burst into tears, but she didn't ask him to leave. He just stayed there, stroking her hair wordlessly until she finally stopped. Every time he opened his mouth, he seemed to say the wrong thing.

Each night, he eventually returned to sleep in his own bed. Eventually, the overwhelming silence bred in him a bizarre form of insomnia, and he spent hours pacing when he should have been sleeping. He had always been a man prone to pacing. It got out the nervous energy, helped clear his head so he might think. How long could they go on like this? He wasn't sure. But it was clear something was missing, something was wrong. Every time he asked, she withdrew further, seemed more upset. Desperation started to settle over him. The sorrow that had somehow completely engulfed her and her bedroom had crept beneath the door and into the cracks of his heart.

* * *

His pancakes were delicious; there was no need for her to sugarcoat her praise of them. But every second of eating them was torturous because she knew that she ought to be the one charged with making them breakfast.

And lunch. And supper.

It ought to be her flipping pancakes and doing the washing up, only letting him help if he absolutely insisted. That was how it was supposed to be. She'd heard him all morning, clattering around the kitchen, cursing under his breath when it wasn't right and then finally presenting the result of his efforts with pride and hint of trepidation. A simple thank you for his efforts didn't seem sufficient to her, but it was all she had to give.

After a few bites she felt her frustration level rise quickly beyond what she was capable of managing. All she had to give fell so short of what he deserved. She excused herself as quickly as possible, no longer hungry.

Only behind her bedroom door did she let her tears fall - silently, save for the odd sniffle. Not only was she a wife incapable of making them breakfast, but also apparently she was not even able to keep him company while they ate it.

* * *

She was avoiding him, and she knew it. She imagined trying to explain her frustrations to him, and even in her head it just sounded like condescending, ungrateful drivel. There wasn't anything he could do anyways. Why bother him with it?

She found herself unnaturally irritable - over everything. Every creak of the floorboards or clattering in the kitchen drove her mad. It was only a matter of time before she bit his head off over something innocent. Best she say nothing at all.

At every meal she had to force herself to feign some enthusiasm, and over the weeks she grew wearier. She cared less and less about protecting his feelings on the subject. Every single bit of food was a reminder that she was dependent, inadequate in this way. She knew in her heart that he didn't resent her for it, but she resented herself. Surely, soon enough, he would, too.

Every time he offered to take her somewhere or have someone call on them, her dismissals became more mechanical. She didn't want to see anyone; it was exhausting enough just tiptoeing around him. The thought of going out was even less appealing. She barely had the energy to make it from her bedroom to the bathroom and back again some days. Going into town would be a task so enormous she grew tired just contemplating it.

She knew she was slipping. She could feel it, slowly. She spent more time in bed, more time asleep, and far too much time thinking. She missed him. Though he was right beyond her door virtually all the time, she wanted nothing more than for that door to stay shut.

* * *

He still touched her from time to time, with an affection that she relished, but felt she did not deserve. Every gentle touch, every chaste kiss on her cheek was his being a dutiful husband, reinforcing that she could not be a dutiful wife. She was sure she was not a dutiful _person_ anymore, let alone a wife. She simply existed. Surviving, but not living. Taking, but incapable of giving.

He just kept giving. They didn't really speak anymore, not about anything meaningful at any rate. She would wake sometimes to find him beside her, his weight sinking the bed slightly. Sometimes she reached for him, hoped for some sliver of comfort that he was still there, that he had not abandoned her. He always was there to hold her hand or stroke her hair. She opened her mouth to apologize to him, but all she did was cry instead. He stayed for every minute of it, but she sensed that her immense unhappiness was unsettling to him. She heard his pacing in the hall, and her heart ached. He must be miserable; she was sure of it. How could he not be at this point?

* * *

Late that night, Elsie buried herself as far as she could under the covers. _Foolish, ungrateful, selfish, cruel woman! _She'd taken advantage of his feelings for her and trapped him in this horrible place. If only she'd said no. How she wished for his sake she'd said no.

She replayed the way he'd carried her over the threshold of their home and the way he'd occasionally kissed her goodnight. The thoughts still gave her butterflies and a glimmer of false happiness.

Then that feeling warped itself into overwhelming guilt as she replayed her memories over and over. His chivalry was simply an innate part of him, another part of the obligation he felt to her. Even in an unconventional marriage Charles had always been the kind of person to do things by the book. He'd carried her over the threshold because "that's how it's done." Hadn't he said that _himself_? He'd kissed her, cared for her and worked for her all because that's what he believed a husband did. He was everything a man ought to be, and she was none of the woman he deserved.

Elsie hid her face in her pillow to muffle her sobbing. No matter how hard she cried her tears could not come close to expressing how sorry she was, how much she wished things were different.

And it would never get better. Never, because it was all so fundamentally wrong. He belonged at Downton. He belonged in his post where he had been happy, doing what he'd trained all his life to do. Now he was miserable, and all because of her and her selfish, stupid, decision. Because of one second of weakness in the bedroom of her cousin's house when she'd agreed to all of this. She'd taken advantage of his kindness, and it had brought them both misery and unhappiness. She may deserve it, but he didn't. The knowledge that she was responsible for his suffering suffocated her.

She wanted out of their arrangement. She wanted out of her own skin. She wanted out of this life. She wanted to release him from everything and breathe again. She wanted _out_.

Almost without being aware of it, she had gotten out of bed and was now padding down the hall. She wanted out. Out, out, out.

The back door opened silently once she found the handle. Her tears, which had been so hot on her cheeks, froze almost instantly. The snow beneath her bare feet was deliciously painful, and after a few steps they started to go numb, which was even better. Each inhalation brought into her lungs air so cold that it burned, and still she walked. Without purpose, or direction, or any sense of herself, Elsie walked out into the night.

* * *

**TBC...**


	23. Footprints in the Snow

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. And to everyone reading - Happy Christmas! **

* * *

"Elsie!...Elsie!"

His voice competed with the wind, which whipped across his face and seemed to be going right through his coat. He didn't feel the cold. He felt only panic. Blind, unadulterated panic.

"Elsie!"

She couldn't have gone far, not in weather like this. He swept the electric torch out in front of him, wondering if he should keep searching by himself or if it was better to go back to call for more help. She was out here, somewhere.

_The draft had woken him, and when he__investigated, he found the back kitchen door swung wide open. He assumed the wind must have blown it, and he almost slammed it shut, but something odd caught his eye. Footprints in the snow. That led away from the house._

"Elsie!"

The wind had kicked up too much snow for him to follow her footsteps for more than about ten feet. He tried to calm his mind and think rationally. Where would she have gone? Where should he look first? But nothing about this was rational, and he found himself groping in the dark for an idea. He didn't even know how long she'd been out here.

"ELSIE!"

_Her empty bed confirmed his worst fears__,__ and he dressed in a flash, grabbing his coat and boots and the electric torch Mr. Branson had insisted upon for emergencies. Charles was most grateful for it now. _

He moved the light along the row of trees that edged their property when it reflected strangely off of something. He looked closer and realized it was a bit of metal. Her wedding ring.

What he'd mistaken for a clump of shrubbery from a distance was actually his wife huddled on the ground and his heart leapt from his stomach to his throat as he ran to her.

"Elsie. Elsie it's me."

Her body was shivering violently, and she didn't respond. Charles tucked the torch into his coat pocket and wasted no time in pulling her into his arms and picking her up. She hadn't gotten very far from the house in the end – he could still see very dimly the back kitchen door.

Once inside he took her straight to the bathroom, pausing only to switch the kitchen light on. There was no electricity in the bathroom, but the light bleeding from the kitchen would do.

"Ch…Charles?" her voice was quiet, but he was so relieved to hear it.

"I'm right here. You're all right," he told her, setting her down on the bathmat. "We're going to get you warm."

Charles had seen frostbite before, back in his early days at Downton when one of the footmen had snuck out and ended up locked out of the house for the night. Foolish lad. Dr. Clarkson's recommendation at the time had been to warm up the poor fellow in the bath very slowly to avoid any tissue damage, so that was Charles' plan now.

In the light, it looked as if her fingers and toes had suffered the worst of it. She'd been wearing only her nightgown, and now it clung to her, soaking wet.

"This needs to come off," he told her, tugging gently at the sleeve of her gown. "Can you take it off yourself?"

He thought it might be better if she did it. He didn't even know how it untied. It was immediately clear that she couldn't remove the garment, though she moved her hands towards the buttons down the front in a futile attempt.

"I've got it," he reassured her, moving her hands away. "I've got you. You're fine."

Once his fingers found the buttons, he stripped off the soaking wet nightgown with such urgency it was a small miracle he didn't rip it in two. He'd never considered if women wore underclothing to bed, but apparently the answer was no. She curled up, trying desperately to be warmer, or perhaps to cover herself. Her words were mostly incoherent mumbles. He lifted her into the tub and started the taps, careful to keep the temperature only lukewarm. He'd never seen her any thing close to naked before, and in fact, he didn't really see her as naked now. He didn't take in her breasts, or the curve of her hip. He saw only her blue lips, how horribly white and hardened the skin on her hands and feet were, and how violently she still shivered.

"Elsie-"

His words were interrupted by her shriek of pain as the water touched her toes. She scrambled away as if it had burned her, hitting her back hard on the wall of the tub.

Charles checked the water temperature again, but it was barely warm. "Elsie, it's all right."

"Burns…" she choked out, sobbing. "It…burns."

"It's only lukewarm, I promise," he told her. It was like she didn't even hear him; she squirmed in agony, trying in vain to get away from the water that was slowly rising. He tried to hold her still by grasping her shoulders, but she twisted out of his grip, sloshing water out of the tub.

"Elsie, calm down. I know it hurts, but you need to-" Her reply came in the form of her elbow slamming into his arm. She was going to hurt herself, quite possibly by hitting her head if he didn't stop this. There was nothing for it. He removed his boots and his coat, leaving him in only his pajamas, and he climbed into the tub behind her.

"It's all right. I'm right here. I know it hurts, but I'm right here." She ignored him, crying and struggling to move away from the rising water, but now when she went backwards, she was pushing into his chest instead of the hard porcelain tub wall. He shifted so his legs wrapped around hers, protecting them from hitting the sides, and he gripped her shoulders gently, whispering in her ear. "I know it hurts, but it's necessary. I'm sorry. Try to stay still for me, please?"

Eventually she stopped fighting him and collapsed backwards. "It… hurts," she mumbled.

"I know." And he was glad of it. Pain meant there was hope. Her fingers in particular looked badly frostbitten, the skin ghastly white, contrasting with the bright red elsewhere. Eventually the water level was up past her stomach and he leaned forward to turn off the taps. They barely both fit in the tub, and now that she was calmer, he was more acutely aware of her nakedness, her nearness, and the uncomfortable fact that his own pajamas were now soaking wet. It helped that she was facing away from him. He had only her back and her tangled hair to contend with. Not knowing what else to do, he reached for a washcloth.

She was still crying a touch as she spoke, but it was almost secondary. A default reaction to the pain she was in. "Charles? What's happening?"

Did she not know? Not remember? Charles rubbed her back as gently as he could with the damp cloth. "You went outside, remember?"

"Yes."

"And I came and got you," he told her. "Do you remember that?"

"Yes." She bit her lip to push back more tears. "Charles, what's happened to my _hands_?"

"They're numb, but they're going to be okay," he told her.

"All right." She was almost like a small child, easily accepting what he said. She leaned forward, away from him or as far away as one could get in such a small space. He added a little soap to the cloth and washed the dirt from her back and shoulders, wordlessly. It was soothing, somehow. When he was finished he offered the cloth to her. "Can you hold it?" he asked her.

She could, though with very trebling fingers. Her right hand was particularly unsteady, so she used her left one to run the cloth down her arms, her front and her legs. Her head was still a little woozy, but she could feel him around her, behind her, ready to steady her the moment she tipped sideways, which she did several times as she washed herself. Charles did his best to stare only at her back, focusing on keeping her upright. When she had finished, she leaned back against his chest.

"My hair," she murmured, touching it with one hand. Her words were much clearer now. "It's tangled something awful."

"Would…" Charles cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to avert his gaze from her breasts that were just visible above the cool, soapy water. "Would you like me to wash it for you?"

"Would you? There's a hairbrush. You'll need it…it's somewhere." Her words may have been clearer, but she was still fairly disoriented.

Just then there was a loud knocking on the front door, which startled them both.

"What's that?" she wondered out loud.

"The door. I'll be right back," he said, stepping out of the bath. Quickly, he pulled his housecoat over his sopping wet pajamas and scurried to the front door. He opened it to find Mr. Andrews, their closest neighbour, standing on the step, lantern in hand.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Carson?" Mr. Andrews asked hesitantly. "Only, I heard some shouting, and Bess wouldn't let me be until I'd come over to check."

"We're all right, thank you, Mr. Andrews," said Charles firmly, anxious to get back to Elsie.

Mr. Andrews looked down at Charles's clearly soaking wet pajama bottoms. "You're sure now? Nothing we can do?"

"No, thank you… Actually…" Charles glanced over his shoulder as if somehow he expected his wife to be hovering there. He lowered his voice. "We're fine for now, but it would be a great help if you could send word to Dr. Clarkson to stop in tomorrow morning, if possible."

"Is Mrs. Carson all right? Are you sure you don't need me to fetch him now?" Charles could see the hint of genuine worry in the Mr. Andrews' eyes. He must have heard her cries. Who knew what the man had been imagining?

"There's no need," Charles reassured him. "But it would be a great help if you could get that message to him for me."

Mr. Andrews smiled slightly. "Consider it done, Mr. Carson. Take care."

"And you," said Charles with finality. He was eager to step back inside the house, back to Elsie, and away from the freezing air. He'd left a trail of wet footprints down the hall, but he would deal with that later. He snatched Elsie's hairbrush from her bedroom and returned swiftly to the bathroom. She was still sitting in the bath, her knees now drawn up to her chest, and she'd started to shiver some again. The bath water had grown too cool.

"Elsie? I'm going to add some more hot water, all right?" She nodded, and he turned on the tap, thanking God that this modern convenience was at their disposal. He'd thought it a luxurious indulgence when he'd first learned of it, but not anymore.

"Who…?"

"Mr. Andrews was just checking in. I've told him everything's fine."

She nodded again. "Good." She'd stopped shivering, now that the bath had more warm water.

"Do you still want me to wash your hair?" he asked, actually hoping she'd say yes.

"If…if you wouldn't mind?" she said quietly. "I can't do it, it's all tangled and my hands hurt so much."

As her head grew clearer she began to think she ought to be terribly embarrassed, but strangely she wasn't. His presence set her remarkably at ease, as if washing her hair in the middle of the night was a perfectly normal activity. She still held her knees to her chest, despite the fact that any modesty she might have had was surely lost already.

He was already soaking wet; there was nothing to lose by climbing back into the tub.

"What do I do?" he asked, when faced with the tangled knot at the back of her head.

"Brush it through," she replied, "until it pulls straight."

He took the hairbrush and did his best to work out the knots. She winced audibly at one point, and he stopped immediately.

"I'm hurting you," he worried.

"Not half so much as it would hurt if I tried to do it myself," she pointed out, cradling her fingers in front of her. "It's fine."

After that he worked in silence, and the knots slowly gave way. Next, he worked the shampoo gently through it. It was oddly calming. He massaged her scalp, probably longer than necessary, but running his fingers through her hair like this was a luxury he'd never dreamed of indulging in.

Never had another person touched Elsie like this before. It almost made her want to cry, for reasons she didn't quite understand. Where had this all come from? This was far and above the call of duty when it came to caring for her; surely it was. And he'd offered. She hadn't even asked - he'd _offered_. She was even sorry when he'd finished, despite him taking his time. She was afraid to break the silence between them. It seemed so peaceful and yet so precarious.

"All finished," he said softly. He got up and fetched a few towels. They immediately discovered that her feet hurt far too much to stand on, so he lifted her onto the - now rather wet - bathmat and wrapped her up in the largest towel they owned.

"Do you have a second nightgown?" he asked her.

"Top drawer," she answered, pulling the towel tighter around herself.

After the intimacy of what they had just done, looking through her underthings in a dresser should have been a walk in the park, but Charles found himself blushing as his eyes skimmed over her drawers and neatly rolled stockings until he found her other nightgown.

"Here we are," he said, as a means of announcing his presence to her when he returned. "Your nightgown."

"I can put it on," she informed him, and she reached out for it, the towel slipping slightly. He placed it carefully in her hands, ready to take it from her if it caused her any pain to touch it, but it didn't seem to.

"I'm going to get into dry things myself. I'll be back," he promised her. She nodded her understanding.

Fully dressed in dry pajamas, Charles made his way back to his wife, who'd managed quite well with getting on her nightgown, save the fastening of a few buttons. Still, her feet hurt her immensely, so he took it upon himself to carry her to her bed. He threw an extra blanket over her for good measure and tucked her in tightly. He had a million questions, but they would all have to wait until morning.

"Warm enough?" he asked her.

"Yes, thank you," she replied quietly.

"Good night then, Elsie."

"Charles?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

"Yes?"

"Would…would you stay with me please?" As if to make her offer more obvious, she shuffled over to make room for him. It was so dark in the room that he could hardly make out her face, but the pleading in her voice said it all.

Charles swallowed. "Of course I will."

He climbed into bed beside her. It felt so natural and so foreign at the same time.

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully. He reached out and stroked her cheek before rolling over.

"Good night, my dear."

* * *

**TBC...at a later date. I'm afraid I'm suffering from a severe illness. If all goes well, hopefully I will be posting new chapters sometime around the end of February. My apologies for the long break. I'm loathe to do it, but don't have much choice. Hope to see you in a few months time. **

**K**


	24. Waking Up

**As always, but especially now - my thanks to chelsie fan. And to deeedeee for this chapter. And to all of you that have supported me over this story's hiatus. We're back now...**

* * *

Elsie was first to awake, or so she thought. She could hear Charles's steady breathing beside her, and somehow his arm had draped itself over her waist in the night. She savoured the weight and the warmth of it against her for a moment before deciding they probably ought not to be touching when he awoke. The instant she moved to get up, his arm tightened around her and his voice sleepily rumbled in her ear.

"Elsie Carson, if you think I'm letting you out of my sight for one instant this morning you have another thing coming."

"Charles," she breathed, thoroughly startled. "I thought you were asleep."

In fact he hadn't been _entirely_ awake, but he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then did wake properly. The sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains confirmed that it was indeed morning. Reluctantly, he removed his arm from around her waist and sat up.

"Well, I'm awake. How do you feel?"

"Fine," she replied automatically. She sat up, too, wincing as she did so.

"Let me see those hands of yours, before I believe that," he said gruffly. Timidly she held them out to him. They did hurt something awful.

He took her wrists gently and turned her hands over, horrified at the abundance of blisters that had appeared on her fingers overnight.

"Can you feel them?" he asked her, his voice slightly shaken.

"They're painful," she admitted. "They don't feel quite…normal…Charles?"

"They've blistered," he explained. "Try not to touch them just yet."

Naturally, the instant he told her not to touch them, that was all she wanted to do. It was bizarre to feel decreased sensation, yet simultaneous pain.

"What should we do?"

"Mr. Andrews should have passed along a message to Dr. Clarkson to drop by this morning," Charles informed her. "Though neither of them know why," he added quickly at her worried expression.

Elsie nodded, her mind reeling as to how she might explain her peculiar injuries to Dr. Clarkson.

"Elsie…" Charles began softly. "_I _don't understand why either."

Elsie bit her lip, not trusting herself to speak. Last night felt like a bad dream, one that she had yet to completely wake up from. She had only made things worse, only worried him more. She, herself, wasn't sure she knew 'why.'

"Elsie…what…" Charles struggled to keep his tone even and non-accusatory, despite how fearful he was inside. "What could you possibly have been thinking?"

"I…I wasn't. I just…I wanted…"

That only upset him further. What could she possibly have _wanted_ that would drive her out of their home in the middle of the night?

"You wanted…" he prompted, trying and failing to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Out," she whispered, shaking her head. "I wanted out. Of everything. I've ruined everything, Charles. I'm sorry."

There was a moment of silence.

"Elsie. We're married."

"But-"

"_Married_, Elsie Carson. I made a promise and I fully intend to keep it. To love you, to cherish you, and to care for you-"

"And you gave up your life to care for me, Charles, and it's not worth it! Look around you. What kind of wife am I? And what kind of woman lets the man she loves give up his life for her? A cruel one, Charles. A cruel, selfish woman."

"I…what? Say that again?"

She was crying and she hated herself for it. "That I'm a cruel, selfish-"

"Not that part, before that," Charles insisted, sitting up much straighter. Had she really said that she…?

"What kind of woman…lets the man she loves… give up his life," she repeated, her voice shaking something awful.

"Elsie, I-"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his protests. Charles almost threw up his hands in frustration when he realized who it must be. "That will be Dr. Clarkson," he said, sliding off the bed. "Come to see about you."

She was still crying, and Charles paused, taking her face in his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "We'll talk about this after," he promised her.

"Give me a minute?" she asked, inhaling deeply and trying to compose herself.

"I'll stall him for a moment," Charles agreed. "And we'll knock."

"All right," she said, rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "All right."

She heard her door shut, and then the sounds of the two men speaking in the hall. Several deep steadying breaths made her head feel somewhat clearer. She probably looked dreadful, but the least she could do was erase any signs she'd been crying. Their voices got louder as they came closer to the door, and Elsie thought she heard snippets of the words "snow," "accidentally," and "frostbitten." Then came the inevitable knock.

"Come in," she called, summoning as much of the old strict housekeeper persona as she could manage, and falling rather short. She sat up straight in bed, almost rigid as they entered, her face unreadable.

"Mrs. Carson," came Dr. Clarkson's Scottish brogue. "Mr. Carson has explained, somewhat. Might I examine you?"

_What _he had chosen to explain, Elsie could only guess at. How she longed to shoot him a questioning look, to be reassured that he hadn't told the doctor everything, but she didn't even know where in the room her husband was.

"Of course," replied Elsie, unable to completely hide her nerves.

"Shall I step out?" Charles asked hesitantly.

"I'd rather you stay, if that's all right," Elsie said, shuffling to edge of the bed.

"Certainly," said Dr. Clarkson, "now let's have a look at those hands, please."

Dr. Clarkson did a through examination of her hands and feet, before wrapping the blistered portions in gauze. He reassured them both that it was likely to be no permanent damage, and the greatest risk now was that of infection. He left them with a generous supply of bandages, so that they might be changed regularly. Just when Elsie thought they were through the worst of this uncomfortable exercise Dr. Clarkson asked what she'd been dreading most.

"I've one final question, Mrs. Carson. How exactly did you come to be trapped outside in weather like this? Without shoes?"

"I…I…"

"Sleepwalking," cut in Charles smoothly. "Ever since you were a very young girl, right, Elsie?"

Elsie swallowed in surprise. "Yes, that's right. Sleepwalking."

"Interesting," said Dr. Clarkson neutrally, and Elsie couldn't tell if he'd bought their story. Perhaps it was more believable than the truth.

"Well, there is very little I can do about sleepwalking," professed Dr. Clarkson.

"I'll be sure to lock the door from now on," said Charles.

"Very good," nodded Dr. Clarkson. "If there is nothing else then?"

There was a slight pause before Elsie shook her head firmly.

Dr. Clarkson suppressed a sigh. "Take care then, Mrs. Carson."

"Thank you," she replied, very much relieved that it was over.

"I'll show Dr. Clarkson out," declared Charles. There was no need, but he wanted a brief word alone. He quietly shut the bedroom door behind them.

"She is going to be all right, then?" Charles asked, still worried.

"Like I said, Mr. Carson. There should be no lasting damage to her extremities. Just be sure to watch for signs of infection, and in a few weeks it should be fine." Dr. Clarkson paused, knowing his next question should be phrased delicately. "I haven't seen Mrs. Carson in the village in some time."

"She prefers to stay indoors," Charles said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"And does she eat well?"

It was uncomfortable, and Charles knew Elsie wouldn't like him to be having this discussion at all. He'd vowed not to, but that was before she'd walked into a blizzard in the middle of the night.

"She has been eating…less."

"Mr. Carson, it would not be unusual for someone that has suffered the loss Mrs. Carson has to have difficulty adjusting. To be, well, melancholy. It's quite common."

"Is there anything I can do about it?" Charles' desperation confirmed what Dr. Clarkson had already strongly suspected.

"_If _she were to exhibit signs of madness…irrational or manic behavior, then there are some rather extreme treatments in London that may help."

Charles scowled furiously. "My wife is _not_ mad," he hissed.

"I wasn't saying that she was," said Dr. Clarkson, very calmly. "But I would be surprised if she was not suffering in some way emotionally. I'm just laying out the facts, Mr. Carson."

"Stick to the relevant ones, please, Dr. Clarkson," returned Charles shortly.

"Very well. If Mrs. Carson is indeed depressed – and since she does not wish to speak of it I cannot make a full assessment, but that is my preliminary opinion – then the best course of action is to try and make her feel useful again. She has spent her entire life being needed by others, and then that changed overnight. Bringing her back to that may help. How to do that is up to you and her."

Charles had softened some at Dr. Clarkson's speech. It made sense. But hadn't he been trying to engage her in things?

"I have…tried to," he said awkwardly. "But she doesn't seem very receptive."

"Start small," Dr. Clarkson advised. "And if nothing else, try getting her to speak about it to someone. I'm available if she wishes, but I believe she might be more open with you, Mr. Carson."

Charles nodded. Perhaps she would. "Thank you for coming, Dr. Clarkson," he said, offering his hand.

"It's good to see you, Mr. Carson," returned the doctor, shaking his hand firmly. "Let me know if I can be of any more assistance."

"I will. Good day, Dr. Clarkson."

Elsie didn't move when Charles re-entered her bedroom. They had a conversation to finish, but he didn't know quite how to begin it again. How many times had this happened between them? How many times had they come close to talking openly only to have one thing or another stand in the way?

"Elsie?"

She was frowning at him. "You helped me lie," she said simply.

"I'm sorry if it was presumptions, it's just-"

"No!" she interrupted. "I…I wanted to say thank you."

"You're welcome then."

There was another awkward pause and Charles took a seat on the bed beside her. "Elsie you don't have to tell anyone anything you don't want to. But I do very much hope you will tell me the truth."

Her nightgown, still rolled up past her elbows, left an expanse of exposed skin. Affectionately, he trailed his fingers lightly up and down the inside of her forearm while he waited patiently for her to speak.

His gentle touch was all she needed. She'd already said before; he was just asking her to say it again. "I love you. I'm sorry I was selfish enough to let you marry me so that you might care for me. And that's the truth," she whispered shamefaced.

He stopped running his hand up and down her arm and cupped her cheek instead. "Elsie, I married you because I love you and for no other reason."

There seemed to be no air in her lungs anymore. "But, but…" she managed.

"I tried to tell you. Before you left, remember? And you wouldn't hear it."

"I didn't think you could possibly mean it. I just thought…that you were being kind. I was leaving, Charles. Sometimes people say things they don't mean to be kind."

"And do you think I married you…to be _kind_?" he said incredulously. ""Elsie, I would be happy being your friend, or your husband, or your lover, so long as I'm with you. But I love you. _That _is why I married you."

"I didn't dare hope it was that kind of marriage," she said quietly.

"Our marriage can be any kind of marriage we want it to be, Elsie."

She was so acutely aware of his warm hand on her cheek and the other on her waist. She leaned into him, feeling for the first time like she had every right to enjoy his touch, free of guilt. She tipped her head up at him, deliciously bold. "Charles? Might…might it be the kind of marriage where you kiss me?"

He was so close; she could feel his breath against her cheek when he answered, his voice low and husky. "If that's what you want."

"Charles?" she murmured.

"Yes?"

"That's what I want."

In this, her husband was happy to oblige her, pulling her into a tender, loving kiss that left no more questions about his love for her, or her love for him.

* * *

**TBC...**


	25. Toast and Truth

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

Her first thought was how soft his lips were and how good it felt to finally be free to kiss him as she'd always dreamed. Well, not quite as she'd dreamed, for she had no idea where to put her hands with six fingers wrapped in bandages. Eventually she settled for simply placing them at her sides and enjoying the way he touched her, his hands on her cheek, tangling in her hair. Slowly they both became braver, as he explored her mouth with increasing passion, leaving her breathless, almost delirious. When his tongue ran over her bottom lip she was quick to grant him access, wanting nothing more than to taste him, to be as close as possible. She would get her wish as he pulled her flush against his chest, his hands roaming over her back, skimming the side of her breast through her nightgown-

"Ch- Charles!" she broke away from him suddenly, the intensity of her want overwhelming her.

He loosened his hold of her immediately, terrified he'd hurt her in some way, that he'd pushed her too far.

"Elsie, I'm sorry." Tears sprang up in her eyes, and she turned her head away in an effort to hide them. Her actions only distressed him more. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She shook her head, embarrassed at being so emotional in what was supposed to be a happy, loving moment. "I'm fine," she reassured him. "It's just…it was just…overwhelming."

He drew back even further until he was out of her reach. "I'm so sorry."

"No!" she cried, grasping out for him. "No, _I'm_ sorry, it was just as much my fault. I wanted…but it's too much, too fast. That's all."

He moved back towards her, pulling her into his arms and letting her head rest on his chest. "I understand," he said, stroking her back.

"Do you?"

"I think so. Elsie, the love I feel for you I think is very old…but the ability to express it in this way is entirely new."

"Yes," she whispered, her tears stopped. "That's exactly it."

He pressed a gentle kiss into her hair.

"It shouldn't be this difficult," she mumbled into his chest. "Is loving someone supposed to be this difficult?"

"I wouldn't know," he said, with a hint of amusement. "I've only truly loved one woman, and she's right here."

"You loved Alice," she challenged.

"I loved the idea of Alice," he admitted. "But I never knew her or cared about her half so much as you. You are completely different, Elsie. I could live without Alice, and I did so, quite happily. But when you left Downton I knew with certainty that I couldn't be happy without you."

Elsie exhaled loudly. "See, that's what I'm talking about right there," she smiled. "How on _earth_ does one formulate a coherent response to such a statement?"

"It's just the truth. I love you. Simple."

"Hmmm," she hummed. "And I love you, but that hardly makes things simple."

"Perhaps," he relented. "But we'll manage. It won't always feel so overwhelming and when it does, you must tell me. Promise me that."

"Of course," she promised cuddling closer to him. He took a moment to just watch her, and run his fingers through her hair. She smelled sweet, of soap and shampoo from the night before. He wished for a moment that they could stay like that forever, her warm body pressed beside his, her hair curling becomingly around her face. But then his stomach betrayed him and rumbled. It broke their little trance, and Elsie giggled.

"All right then," said Charles. "How do you feel about some _overwhelmingly_ mediocre breakfast?"

She used one un-bandaged finger to seek out his chin and trace along his jawline, before planting a little kiss on his chin. "I think I could abide that," she declared.

"Good, because I require your assistance."

"You do?"

"Yes, you're going to teach me to use that vile toasting contraption of yours."

* * *

"Do I plug it into the wall socket first?"

"No, no! Then the coil will heat up and you might burn yourself."

"I thought that was the point of this thing."

"Not before putting the bread in."

"Well, what do I do first?"

"There are little handles that swing the doors open; start there."

"There are a million little handles," Charles grumbled. From her spot sitting at the kitchen table Elsie suppressed a little laugh.

"There are only two," she insisted, "one for the door on each side."

Eventually he found them, and the doors of the toaster flopped out with a little crash.

"Don't go breaking it now," she chastised him, a smile in her voice. He absorbed the remark without comment, simply delighted to see her smile.

"Yes, _dear_," he replied with exaggerated docility. "Now what?"

"Now you put the bread in," she explained. "One on each side if you'd like to toast two at once."

"Seems straightforward…" he said, placing one slice of bread on each side. "And then I close it up?"

"That's right. And once it's closed, you may plug it in."

Charles closed up the little doors, making sure they were very securely shut before finding the cord. As he went to plug it into the wall socket, he hesitated.

"Elsie?"

"What's the matter?" she asked, frowning at the silence.

"It's not going to electrocute me, is it?"

Elsie snorted. "Are you telling me that the great Mr. Carson is afraid of electricity? After we've had it in the Abbey for well over a decade?"

"I'm not afraid of the electricity," he said firmly. "I'm afraid of this convoluted invention electrocuting me."

"The toaster won't be doing any electrocuting; the electricity in the wall will," she told him, straight-faced.

"Is that your idea of help?"

"You're far too easy to wind up, Charles. Just plug it in already."

Grimacing, he did so and…nothing happened. "There," he said curtly.

"Was that so hard?" she asked, her voice full of mischief.

"Yes," he intoned, with a hint of amusement. "Absurdly difficult. The most challenging thing I've ever attempted. It is beyond comprehension-"

"_You_ were the one that was making a fuss about it," she protested. "I'm just trying to ease you into the 20th century."

"Drag me by the ear, more like."

"You said it, not I."

"Well- oh!" he exclaimed in alarm, "the coils inside have gone bright red!"

"It's supposed to do that," she explained patiently. "Now watch them carefully, and when they're finished on the one side, open the doors again and the toast will flop out."

"What about the other side?"

"I've no idea. I've been eating bread toasted on only the one side for years," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He smiled to see a bit of her old wit back, even if it was at his expense. "I have to open it and flip them over," he reasoned.

"Try not to burn yourself on the coils when you do," she warned. "And keep an eye on them through the top. It's much faster than the stove."

"All right," said Charles, beaming at her.

This was what he missed so much, this Elsie. Perhaps her eyes did not sparkle like before when she teased him, but they did not need to. He could see it in her cheeks when she smiled, or the way she bit her lip to keep from laughing. Sitting there with her housecoat wrapped tightly around her and her hair spilling out of the dreadful braid he'd attempted to help her with earlier, she was beautiful to him. She was still paler than he was used to, and thinner too, but there was life again. All was not hopeless between them, not if they could banter like this. In their own kitchen, she was even bolder with her teasing than she'd ever been at Downton. In his joy, he wanted so badly to kiss her again, but he grimaced at the memory of her pulling away. He vowed not to overwhelm her again, not ever. They'd find their way. He would be happy to let her lead.

"Charles!"

"Hmm, what?"

"It's burning! Can't you smell the smoke?!"

"Oh!" he was snapped out of his revere by the steady stream of smoke rising up from the toaster. "What do I-"

"UNPLUG IT!" she implored him.

He did as he was told and proceeded to chase away the smoke by vigorously waving a nearby dishtowel, trying to clear it quickly from the room.

There was a beat of silence.

"I take it nothing is on fire then?" she asked evenly.

"No, but um…" he opened the doors and two blackened pieces of bread flopped down. "The toast is very, very, very burnt."

"Is there more bread?"

"Plenty," he replied, pulling out two more slices.

"That's all right then. Though perhaps I ought to watch it this time," she remarked.

"Very funny. I'll keep a closer eye on it, I promise."

"What on earth was so distracting that you let them be burnt to a crisp?"

He'd demanded the truth always from her earlier; it was only fair he reciprocate. "I was…erm…well, I was looking at you."

"Why?" she asked, incredulously.

He crossed the kitchen to sit next to her. "Well, you see…you do this very becoming thing with your lip-"

She bit it automatically in response, and he chuckled. "Yes, _that_."

She released it immediately. "I'm sorry. My mother always chastised me and I never broke the habit, but-"

"No, it's perfect. It's…you."

"You like it?"

"It makes me want to kiss it free."

"You might do that," she said, biting down on it very gently. He leaned over and kissed her softly, teasing her bottom lip out from underneath her teeth and kissing it lightly as if it were injured. She smiled against his mouth and he pulled away.

"That was nice," she said quietly. "Perhaps I ought to do it more often."

"Just not while I'm making toast," he begged, getting up to try again.

She laughed. "Agreed."

A short time later they had two perfectly good pieces of toast in front of them, and a pot of tea. He put a smear of blueberry jam on hers, happy that he knew her preference from years of sitting beside her at breakfast. Proudly he slid the plate back to her. She touched her fingers around the edge of her plate and winced.

"Charles?"

"What is it?"

"I don't think…I don't think I can pick it up if I can't feel it."

Suddenly her happy demeanour was gone replaced by one that was nervous and frustrated all at once.

"It's fine, Elsie."

"No, no it's not." She hadn't realized how close the tears were to the surface until they pooled in her eyes. "First my sight is ruined, and then I go and ruin the only other way I see: my hands."

She held them up, as if to prove her point.

"Not ruined," he insisted, taking her gently by the wrists and planting little kisses on them. "Temporarily incapacitated."

"Because of _me_," she replied, pulling her hands away.

"You must forgive yourself for that. You said it yourself: you weren't thinking."

"Then I should have been thinking."

"And I should have been watching the toast the first time," he said kindly. "We all make mistakes, Elsie, even you once in a while. You've become very hard on yourself, I think."

She was quiet for a spell before she nodded slowly. "I think you may be right about that."

"Then forgive yourself. And let me feed you your toast today, and in a week or so it will all be forgotten."

"It might take more than a week to forgive myself," she said nervously.

"Then however long it takes," he said. "But you will, won't you?"

She thought about it for a moment, not wanting to promise something she could not do. "Yes," she said finally, "I think I will."

"Good," he said. She smiled softly. However long it took, he would be there.

Charles cleared his throat. "Now I'm desperate for you opinion on this toast, so open up," he said cheekily, tapping the piece lightly against her mouth. She smiled, wider this time.

"Mind your fingers," she cautioned, before taking a rather substantial bite. He laughed, and heeded her warning.

"Delicious," she declared, once she'd swallowed. He offered her another bite and she took it, amazed that he had made such a demeaning task into something almost enjoyable. It took them a little while longer to finish their breakfast than it otherwise might have, what with Charles stealing a light kiss every two or three bites, but it didn't matter. There was nowhere else they needed be.

* * *

**TBC...**


	26. Thoroughly Backwards

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. And thank you to everyone that takes the time to review or leave me messages on tumblr. I'm sorry I haven't been replying to you, but I do appreciate your comments. Updates are coming as quickly as I can manage, which is to say not very quickly at all. I'm still fairly ill, if truth be told. **

**But writing anyways. Enjoy. **

* * *

The knock on the bedroom door was familiar, and the voice even more so. "Elsie?"

"Come in," she invited him, drawing the covers over her. This was their routine now, every night after the first one when she'd invited him to sleep beside her. He came in, shut the door behind him and slid under the covers. They'd developed a little routine of preparing for sleep separately, but then going to sleep side-by-side, both comforted by the other's presence. Every night there were little more than cautious kisses between them before they rolled over to their respective sides and fell asleep.

In the morning he wouldn't be there, and his side of the bed would be cold. Elsie would move over to it, lying there, half-imagining his scent still on this pillow while she listened to him make breakfast. If she wasn't awake before the kettle whistled, she certainly was afterwards. Eventually she would get out of bed, pull on her dressing gown and pad out to the kitchen. By her estimation he wasn't ready to make toast in their toaster without supervision yet.

OoOoOoOoO

He set the teacup down at her place. Everything had a very firmly defined place now, including where her tea sat on the table. She knew he'd already put the milk and sugar in precisely as she liked in the mornings. Her hands were much better three days out from the worst of it, and she no longer needed his help in lifting the cup to her lips.

"This strikes me all as very backwards you know," she said, placing her napkin carefully in her lap.

"What does?" he inquired.

"Your making me all my meals and doing everything to keep the house in order." She worried her lip. This was her greatest insecurity, and it was impossible to hide how nervous it made her to speak of it.

She heard him take his seat beside her, clearly taking a moment to arrange his own breakfast. He cleared his throat slightly. "The way I see it, my dear, is that you've done quite a lot of housekeeping _already_ in your lifetime."

She did smile slightly at that. "It doesn't mean it's not backwards for you to be doing it now."

Charles pondered this for a moment, chewing his toast thoughtfully. "Well, we didn't exactly do things in a straightforward fashion to begin with, did we?"

"I suppose not…" she replied, not entirely sure of what he meant.

"Of course not. First I decided to retire, and _then_ we decided to get married, and _then _it was over a month before I told you that I loved you. So if you ask me, we're very backwards indeed."

She laughed outright and nodded her head. "Yes, very backwards indeed. I suppose you know what comes next then?"

She'd puzzled him. "Next?" he asked very cautiously.

"Of course," she said primly. "The courting probably ought to begin next."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I never did that properly, either."

"Well, one couldn't call it _im_proper," she replied smartly, finishing off her tea. "But if we are so backwards, Mr. Carson, perhaps I should court you."

"Perhaps you should," he said, clearing away their places.

"Perhaps I will," she shot back cheekily.

She rose to go and change, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on the small of her back, turning her to face him. He bent to speak in her ear. "I think I should like that very much, Mrs. Carson."

She blushed. "Get on with you," she managed, entirely flustered by him. "I must be getting changed, or we'll be late for church." And with that she bustled out of the kitchen.

He looked at the clock on the wall, bemused. She couldn't possibly know what time it was, or she would know that they had well over an hour before church.

OoOoOoOoO

"….damned, blasted, wretched, miserable thing!"

For the fifth or sixth time the hooks slipped beneath her clumsy fingertips, causing her corset to slide down her front, unbound. It was absurdly difficult to do it up without sight, let alone with no sensation in the three fingers that remained bandaged.

"That was rather blasphemous for a Sunday morning," called Charles from the hall.

"Oh, go away, Charles!" she snapped back, her patience worn away entirely by the tiresome, constricting bit of stiff fabric and bone. It had been ages since she'd put her corset on, living entirely in her dressing gown as she had. But she could not possibly wear her church clothing and go into the village without it, so there she stood, growing steadily more frustrated by it for almost half an hour.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he called. "We will actually be late soon."

"I know that!" she snapped. "But unless you also happen to be a ladies maid, then I don't think I'll be going!"

There was a pause as what she'd said sunk in. Had she really just asked that he…?

"Elsie, might I come in?" came his voice gently from behind the door. There was silence for a moment.

"Yes…please," she said finally. She collapsed back into a seated position on the bed, her corset loosely draped around her waist and her head in her hands.

The sound of the door hinges creaking was the only indication that he'd walked into the room, until he slowly lifted her chin up with his hand.

"Might my lady be in need of assistance?" he asked softly. "I don't know how…but if you told me, I might…possibly?"

She was frustrated almost to the point of tears, but his calming voice and tentative touch eased it some. "It cannot hurt to try," she supposed.

"What do I need to do?"

Clumsily she stood and repositioned the corset over her shift. "These clasps won't close for me," she said, indicated a row of hooks and eyes that ran down the front.

"What about the laces at the back?"

"Leave them. There's no need for them to be adjusted." Her fingers fumbled at a hook again, fruitlessly. "If I could only get these stupid-"

His hands covered hers, stilling them and silencing her. "Let me."

"Start with the bottom ones," she instructed almost shyly, "and, um, work your way up."

He knelt in front of her and tried valiantly to fasten the bottom hooks, but they were hidden beneath a bit of fabric, and every angle from the front was hopelessly awkward. After getting nowhere for half a minute, he let out a sharp breath of annoyance. "I'm beginning to see your frustration," he groused. "I can't seem to-"

"Maybe…if you stood…" she worried her lip again, wondering if she could even suggest…

"Behind you?" he finished, rising to his feet.

"Yes," she breathed, slightly flustered at his sudden presence behind her, his chest touching her back, the side of his cheek against her temple and his arms wrapped around her waist.

"It that any easier for you?" she asked, as he tried to fasten the corset again.

"I believe so." It was; he could see both hook and eye now and putting them together was much easier. But she was ever so distracting: the few pieces of her hair that had worked their way loose from her bun and curled around her neck, the rise and fall of her chest veiled only by her shift. Slowly he worked his way up the busk of her corset, trying to fight his desire to stare at her, to touch her. It was preposterous. Why, he'd already seen her in less clothing before. But this was different somehow. This wasn't some emergency; dressing for church was hardly a life or death situation…no she was _letting_ him do this. He felt her relax against him, and he relished the need to press his cheek to hers in order to see what he was doing. The further up he moved, the more the restricting garment pushed her breasts up against her shift, and the harder it was to keep his thoughts away from his desire to kiss her exposed neck. When he reached the very last hook he noticed her breath hitch as he accidentally skimmed her breast with his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled instantly, pulling his hands away, but she caught them in her own.

"It's quite all right," she said quickly, wrapping his arms back around her and bringing his fingers up to her mouth, unable to resist giving them a gentle kiss in payment. "Thank you."

He flushed, but said nothing. He didn't dare move as she let go of his fingers and turned to face him.

"Is it done up correctly?" he asked, his face far too close to hers.

"I believe so," she said running her hand up and down the front to find it fastened as it should be. She could _feel_ him, even though they were barely touching. His desire for her was so clear, but she wondered if he knew how much _she_ wanted _him_. She pressed her palms against his chest and lifted herself up on her tiptoes. He took the hint and caught her lips in a searing kiss that contained all of the affection, but nothing of the gentleness with which she'd just kissed his fingers. His hands ran down her sides, but her corset confined her so tightly that he felt none of the softness he expected - _wanted_. She pulled herself closer to him and he followed her lead, deepening their kiss until eventually they broke apart breathless. He leaned forward, his forehead against hers, trying to remember what breathing felt like.

"Is this your idea of courting me?" he managed, after a moment.

"Perhaps," she panted.

"We…_we_ have to go to church," he said, almost mechanically, still dazed.

"Yes…" her hands lingered on his chest. "And for that I have to finish getting dressed."

"I could help you," he said, "if you're going to continue to pay me in kisses."

"That seems to be fair," she replied, despite the fact that they both knew it was probably unnecessary it was for him to help her further. "My dress, then."

It was hanging in the closet, and he fetched it as quickly as he could. "How does this go on?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she said cheekily, taking it from him.

"I'm just doing as I was asked," he protested, smiling at her. "Where do I stand for this?"

"Just here," she said, pulling him in front of her. "There are several buttons down the front. You undo them for me so I can step into it."

"Certainly," he replied. These buttons were much less difficult than her corset had been, and in no time the task was complete. "There."

"Now, if you would be so kind as to help me into- yes," He'd knelt and guided her left stockinged foot into it, followed by the right one. Somehow touching her ankles, stockings and all, was just as arousing to him as fastening her corset had been. It took all his resolve to look only at her feet and at the dress, which he carefully lifted up into her waiting hands. She slipped it all the way up to her shoulders.

"May I?" he asked, his hands already at the buttons he'd just unfastened.

"Please," she smiled. She could feel his hands trembling slightly as he did them up, but when he'd finished, he didn't pull his hands away immediately like the last time. His fingers boldly traced along her neckline and eventually up her neck. She whimpered slightly at his touch, never able to know quite where he was going next. He grinned at this, a wonderful wide grin that she could not see.

"Elsie, you're very beautiful, you know that?"

She blushed and pulled his hand away, but was not able to let go of it. "Don't say daft things like that."

"I-"

"I shan't kiss you if you do," she threatened.

"Then I won't," he said, stepping closer to her once more, "but you cannot stop me from _thinking _them."

"We…._we_ have to go to church," she said this time, despite leaning into him. "We…have to…go-" his kissing cut off her sensible words. He thought he would never tire of touching her. Reverently he cupped her face in her hands as he kissed her thoroughly again.

"Well, I had to collect payment for helping with the dress," he murmured against her lips. This wasn't helping, quite the opposite. He could feel his desire for her building and that just wouldn't do. They had to go. Despite knowing this, neither wanted to stop, but both knew they couldn't possibly carry on right this minute. To have such yearnings about each other… right before church on Sunday, too! Charles thought God must be testing him that morning, or possibly that He simply possessed a very ineffable sense of humour. Whatever it was, it took all his willpower to pull away from her.

"I'll get our coats while you fix your hat. I'm sure I couldn't help you with that," he managed finally.

"Yes," she said, her face very flushed. "That's an excellent idea."

He left reluctantly for the hall, and she set about fixing her hair and pinning on her Sunday hat. When he returned with their coats, scarves and gloves he found her just finishing with her task.

"Is it very cold outside, Charles?" she asked, double-checking the security of her hat.

He was rather perplexed by the question. "Yes, it is, rather," he answered, helping her into her coat.

"Good."

* * *

**TBC...**


	27. The Fourth Sunday of Advent

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

The bells of St. Michaels were tolling by the time Charles and Elsie made it to the front doors. They were in time. Just. Silently they slipped into the backmost pew and Charles helped her ease off her coat. The church was beautifully decorated, for it was already the fourth Sunday of Advent, and Charles wished he could describe it to her, but too soon the tiny church organ began to play and the processional had begun.

The service passed quickly for Elsie, much to her surprise. The prayers so ingrained in her that she didn't need help reciting them, and the hymns this time of year were so familiar that she was able to surprise Charles by singing boldly the fourth verse of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" while he flipped quickly through the hymnal himself to find the words. She'd sat next to him at countless services over the last twenty years. Weddings, funerals, christenings and a great many regular Sunday services. But she'd never sat next to him as his wife and somehow it felt different, as if by marrying him under God she was made more honest in her heart. She'd prayed for certainty that it was the path she was supposed to be walking before she married him. Sitting beside him that morning brought on such an intense feeling of belonging and peace that she was sure she finally had it. As the service finished, she sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks and let the familiar sound of gentle conversations wash over her.

While she appreciated the number of people that came to speak with her afterwards to express their pleasure at having her in their midst again, she grew increasingly frustrated that people didn't introduce themselves before speaking, meaning she spent half the conversation trying to determine who was talking to her. The more of them there were, the more difficult it was. (With the notable exception of Mrs. Patmore, who was discernable from a fair distance.)

She'd lost Charles in the chaos of conversation, and was starting to feel slightly disoriented until a familiar voice came from her left.

"Mrs. Hughes, it's Mr. Bates. It's good to see you."

"Oh, Mr. Bates," she sighed with relief. "It is very good to see you as well."

"Are you well?" he asked, sounding slightly desperate.

"Fine, thank you," she reassured him. Now that he was here, she was acutely aware of who was missing. "Is Anna with you?"

There was a pause, and Elsie's face adopted a worried expression. "Mr. Bates?" she asked, puzzled.

Mr. Bates spoke quietly, carefully. "I'm afraid she's... not very well."

"I'm sorry?"

He leaned in further so as not to be overheard. "She's rather ill. Dr. Clarkson's been to see her, and Lady Mary has given a few weeks off to recuperate, but-"

"Goodness, Mr. Bates, now you really are frightening me."

"I don't mean to, she tells me she'll be perfectly fine, but you know Anna."

Elsie nodded. She'd seen the girl work through cough and fever, not stopping until ordered to bed. Mr. Bates continued on with his story. "You see, I am in a bit of a bind. His Lordship is going to London this afternoon until Christmas Eve, and I'm hesitant to leave her alone even for a few days. I didn't want to bother you with it, but-"

"No," Elsie interrupted. "I'll call on her. Today."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson. It would mean a great deal to me. And I'm sure to Anna."

Charles appeared at her shoulder, touching it lightly. "Mr. Bates," he acknowledged with a nod.

"Charles, I'd like very much to call on Anna this afternoon." Elsie said, turning to him. Charles looked from his wife's urgent face to Mr. Bates rather grim one.

"Well," he said hesitantly, "I suppose if you're up for it-"

"I am," said Elsie firmly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson. Mr. Carson," said Mr. Bates, with a tip of his hat. "I must be getting back to the house."

"Of course," nodded Charles.

Mr. Bates took his leave and Charles leaned down to murmur in Elsie's ear. "What is so pressing?" he asked.

"Anna is ill," she murmured back.

That was it. If she wanted to visit Anna, he was hardly going to be able to stand in her way. "What if I took you over there after luncheon?"

"Yes, please."

And so it was decided. They went back to their house for a meal, but all throughout it Elsie was distracted, fussing with her food in a way he'd never seen before. Charles started to worry about this endeavor. Was this something she should be concerning herself with? After all she'd barely just started to seem more like herself...

"Elsie," he began.

"I'm going," she said firmly, already anticipating his concern. "I haven't seen her in well over a month and... and-" she trailed off suddenly, a surge of emotion taking her words.

Charles put down his knife and fork to pull her hands away from her face and cradled them in his own. "Then, you'll go," he told her. "You'll go, and I'm sure she'll be fine." He couldn't possibly know that, but it seemed unlikely it was dire if Mr. Bates was willing to leave her alone for an hour or so to go to church.

A few stray tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes, despite her attempts to blink them away. "It's been a long time," she mumbled. "She was so kind to me when I left, and I haven't so much as called on her since the wedding. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't even _want _to see me."

"Anna understands," Charles reassured her. "And I'm sure she would welcome your visit. As, would Mr. Bates, clearly."

"He did sound worried," she supposed.

"He looked worried," agreed Charles. "But that man dotes upon her. I wouldn't take it as an indication anything is too terribly wrong."

Elsie smiled a little half smile at this. Charles wiped away the evidence of her tears with his thumb. "Go and see her, if that's what will make you feel better. There is no point sitting here worrying."

She nodded. "I suppose you're right. I'm jumping to conclusions far too early." She bit her lip without thinking, and Charles grinned, taking the opportunity to gently kiss it free. She smiled against his lips and kissed him back more ardently. For a moment she forgot her worry and simply enjoyed kissing her husband.

"Let's get some things together and go," he said quietly, after they broke apart. He stood abruptly to clear their places, and pack some items of food into a basket.

"Charles?" said Elsie, standing slowly.

"Yes?"

She could always orient herself to his voice, and she took a few steps until she could reach out and touch him. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his waist, causing him to halt his task, and hold her. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much."

"Of course, my dear," he replied, kissing her hair. "Of course."

* * *

**TBC...**


	28. Once a Housekeeper

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

By the time Charles and Elsie reached the Bateses's cottage, all signs of her nervousness had disappeared, replaced with a cool determination. She was bracing herself, Charles realized.

The door was unlocked, and after shaking some of the snow from her boots, she called up the stairs. "Anna?"

"Mrs. Hughes?" came the bleary reply. "I mean, Mrs. Carson-" There was a scuffling of noise as Anna attempted to climb out of bed. "I didn't expect...I'm afraid I'm not decent."

"Go back to bed," commanded Elsie firmly from downstairs. "I'll come to you."

Elsie turned to Charles, who spoke her mind before she could. "I'll wait down here," he said. "You'll let me know if you need me?"

"Thank you," said Elsie gratefully. "I shouldn't think she'd like-"

"To see me right this very moment," Charles finished for her. "Be _careful_."

She was already marching up the stairs, a woman determined. Charles smiled a little to see her go up. There was a presence he hadn't seen in a long time. The housekeeper again. Sort of. Softer, somehow. He took a seat on the sofa, and let his own worry about Anna assert itself. There was nothing for him to do anymore, but sit and wait. There was no reason to worry without a good reason, but he did anyways. Eventually he couldn't sit still and decided he'd busy himself with putting on the kettle. Something to do.

Upstairs, Elsie found a door directly on her right. "Anna?"

"In here," answered Anna from behind the door, still sounding slightly puzzled. "Did Mr. Bates send you?"

"He did," confirmed Elsie, opening it. The room smelled faintly of stale vomit and Elsie had to consciously stop herself from wrinkling her nose at it. "He mentioned you weren't quite well."

"He worries too much," grumbled Anna. "I'm fine."

Elsie stood in the doorway, not moving. "Oh?"

"Well," Anna conceded. "Not..._entirely. _But there's no need for-"

"Should I go?" interrupted Elsie. It wasn't actually an option, not before she got the truth, but she had no use for quibbling.

Anna paused. "Please, don't," she replied meekly.

Elsie finally crossed the room to the bed and settled herself down on it. "Then I won't," she said more kindly, seeking Anna's hands with her own. Anna decided this wasn't nearly enough and crashed headlong into her former superior, wrapping her arms around Elsie's middle.

"Anna, what's the matter?"

"I feel awful_,_" Anna confessed. "Nothing will stay down, and I feel so dizzy all the time and..." Anna trailed off, burying her face into Elsie's skirt. _And I've missed__ you. You cannot know how much I've missed you._

"Has Dr. Clarkson seen you?" Elsie asked, stroking Anna's hair reflexively. She knew the answer, but she thought Anna might be more forthcoming than her husband had been about her mysterious illness.

"Yes," she replied, turning her face so that her words wouldn't be muffled. "He says it should pass." Anna paused to collect herself. "But it's not supposed to be like _this."_

Elsie felt her heartbeat quicken slightly, hoping against hope that she'd understood Anna correctly. "You mean...it's..."

"Yes," groaned Anna. "Over a month gone, he thinks."

Elsie couldn't help the brilliant smile that appeared on her face. "Anna, that's delightful."

Anna got up quickly, fishing for the basin on the other side of her and retching into it for what had certainly not been the first time that day. Perhaps "delightful" was not the appropriate word right this second. Elsie rubbed Anna's back soothingly until it passed. "I cannot believe I prayed for this," Anna muttered, leaning back into her pillows.

"It _will_ pass," Elsie assured her. "And it will all be worth it, I promise."

"I thought it would only be in the morning," said Anna.

"It _should_ be..." said Elsie, her brow now wrinkling in concern. "Perhaps it varies." Pregnancy was not her area of expertise. Her sister had no children; she was too little to have remembered her mother pregnant; and service had not exposed her to many pregnancies.

"What did Dr. Clarkson say to do?" she asked.

Anna gave a short, empty laugh. "To eat and drink as much as possible." Anna shuddered. "I don't even want to think of it."

"You should," replied Elsie automatically. "But let's get you cleaned up a little more first."

Anna mumbled incoherently, curling herself into a more comfortable position.

"I'll be back," Elsie told her, pulling the blankets up around the girl. "Just stay there for now." She got up and headed for the stairs, but Anna's voice made her pause.

"Mrs. Carson?"

There was a little flicker of happiness that Elsie felt under her breastbone at the address. "Yes, dear?"

"I am glad you've come," said Anna.

"As am I," replied Elsie sincerely. "Now, I'll be right back."

Downstairs she found Charles in the kitchen fussing with the stove. He dropped his attention to it when she reappeared, eager to know what she'd found out.

"She's all right," Elsie reassured him. "Or she will be soon enough, I-" she paused, confused. "What on earth were you doing?"

"I cannot get this confounded range to light. There doesn't even seem to be a door..."

Elsie ran her hands over the stone cold surface of the stove and smiled. "Have you considered the fact that it's a gas stove, not coal?"

"I...oh. Well, ours is different," he said, slightly defensively.

"Yes, it is" she smiled. "But never mind that now. I need you to get some things for me."

* * *

"Okay," said Elsie taking stock of the contents of the kitchen counter. "Honey, chicken broth, vinegar, and then there's still some bread in the basket."

"Correct," Charles confirmed, looking down at the slip of paper in his hand. "You want...chamomile tea, baking powder, ginger root, crackers, and...half a dozen lemons?"

"Well, as many as you can manage."

"This sounds like the makings of the worst supper of all time."

"It's not supper!" she exclaimed. "It's to help her feel better. Trust me."

"With witches concoctions," Charles muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," she said, with mock exasperation.

Charles shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, still unsettled. "She _is_ going to be all right, isn't she?"

Darling man, he sounded so worried. Elsie was quick to reassure him. "Of course she is. Dr. Clarkson has come and gone. I'll see to her for now, until Mr. Bates comes back. She's going to be fine, Charles."

Charles regarded her with a look of pure admiration. "Elsie, in another life... you would be a wonderful mother." The minute he said it, he wondered if he shouldn't have. They'd never really talked of children, not really. What if he'd stumbled into... And then she was smiling at the floor for some reason, and he stopped worrying about having possibly upset her. For a moment she was silent, beaming and he stared at her, confused.

She shouldn't say. It wasn't her news to tell, and it was far too early, but she couldn't stop the smile on her face. "Well," she said quietly. "At least in this life, Anna is going to make a wonderful one."

"Oh!" he intoned, his voice a delicious mix of surprise and delight to her. "That's it."

"Yes, that's it. A little sickness, that's all. But right now she's a rather miserable creature."

He pulled her into a warm hug, and they stood there in the kitchen for a short moment, embracing each other. A little bit of joy that they could both share in. When they broke apart he kissed her quickly. "I should get back upstairs, " Elsie said, her hands still on his chest.

"Go then, and I'll be back with your...lemons and all the rest."

* * *

Charles returned from the village to discover that she had _lit the stove, _and that there was a kettle whistling away insistently. Elsie bustled down the stairs to see to it, barrelled almost headlong into her husband, who caught her by the shoulders and caused her to give a little cry of surprise.

"Charles! You frightened me half to death!"

"You frighten _me _half to death," he replied, still staring at the kitchen. "Did you light that yourself?"

"Yes," replied Elsie. Having recovered, she was now working on figuring out where exactly she'd left the pot grips on the counter. "With instructions. What of it?"

Her tone was teasing, challenging. "Nothing," said Charles. "Absolutely nothing."

"Rubbish. You brought the tea?"

"And the lemons. A half dozen. Will that suit you?"

"Quite nicely," she said, taking them from him, entirely missing his incredulous expression. Half a dozen lemons. She had actually wanted half a dozen lemons. She inspected them with her fingers and then carefully set them aside. "Would you be so kind as to pour the water into the teapot? Only seeing as I may have filled the kettle rather full."

He lifted the heavy cast iron kettle off the stove and the words 'tell me you weren't _dreaming_ of doing this yourself' came to mind, but he kept the thought to himself. In his absence she seemed to have ferreted out spoons and the teapot, as well as several mugs, lined up neatly in a row.

"Thank you," she said when he'd finished. She spooned a few teaspoons of tea into the pot and stirred it vigorously, before replacing the lid. All throughout, she had the curious sensation of his watching her. She put the cozy over the pot before turning towards him. "What?"

"I...Nothing," he stumbled, surprised to see her so lively, her movements so...capable.

"Tell me." She didn't quite ever met his eye when she looked at him, but there was no mistaking her probing expression.

"I love you," he said finally. "That's all."

Her face broke into a smile and she shook her head at him. He placed a finger on her chin, and tipped her head up to kiss him. "I do," he told her. "You're marvellous. And what you're doing for Anna is marvellous."

"Don't be-"

He cut her off with a kiss, thinking it more effective and more appropriate than any words.

"Fine," she said finally. "Marvellous."

"That's better," Charles huffed.

She smiled and poured a mug of tea through the strainer, stopping just before it was too full. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to being 'marvellous' upstairs."

"You do that," said Charles incredulously. "I'll come check on you two later."

"Thank you." She headed for the stairs with the mug of tea and her cane. If she hadn't been carrying a mug of hot tea, Charles just might have given in to the urge to give her bottom a playful pinch.

* * *

"Sit up." It was a command, not a request. Anna groaned, but complied. Elsie ran her hand over Anna's cheek, down the arm of her nightgown to one limp and clammy hand. "All right. These sheets need changing, as does your clothing."

"Must I?" asked Anna.

"You'll feel better, I promise. Here, come sit in the chair, and I'll strip the bed." Anna stood grudgingly and leaned on Elsie as she made her way to the chair. Elsie searched out the basin and held it out to the poor woman.

"Just in case."

"Thank you," muttered Anna.

Elsie started pulling the sheets and blankets off the bed with practiced ease. _Once a housemaid, you never lose the knack, _she smiled to herself, and in no time flat the bed was clear.

"Fresh ones?" she asked Anna.

"In the cupboard, I can…get them…"

"You can stay right where you are," said Elsie. "High? Low?"

"Bottom, on the right," instructed Anna, watching as Elsie pulled out the necessary bedding, pillowcases and all. Without hesitation she began making up the bed, thanking God for her years and years of making up beds. The material moved so easily in her hands, the motions to form each corner ingrained. She even re-sheathed the pillows as Anna watched with some degree of amazement.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hugh- Mrs. Carson," fumbled Anna, as she made to stand up. "I'm sorry. I will get that."

"Sit down," insisted Elsie. "We've only half finished. You're next."

"I am?" said Anna weakly.

"Yes. Bathroom?"

"Next door," said Anna.

"Sit," commanded Elsie again. Anna did, and was promptly retching into the basin again. Elsie grimaced. They were going to need a washcloth. Or three.

Half an hour later Anna had been given something resembling a sponge bath and was tucked into bed in a fresh nightgown, sipping a cup of barely warm tea. Every so often Elsie tried to convince her to eat a cracker and successfully got her to eat four before Anna refused any more. Viewing this as a success, Elsie sat back in the rocking chair and let Anna rest for the remainder of the afternoon. If she was completely honest with herself, she, too, was exhausted.

* * *

Upon returning to the Bateses's cottage later that evening, Charles found his knocks went unanswered. Nervously, he pushed through the door and crept up the stairs.

"Elsie?"

Not hearing an answer, he opened the bedroom door to find Anna curled up fast asleep in bed, and Elsie dozing in the chair beside her. She couldn't have been comfortable, but Charles was loath to wake her. Instead, he picked up a quilt that was folded neatly on the end of the bed and tucked it around her.

"Charles?" she murmured sleepily, shifting in her seat.

"It's me," he whispered back, not wanting to wake Anna.

"I'm going to sta- stay-" she yawned, "here for now."

"I assumed as much," he said, kissing her on the forehead. "Go back to sleep, my love."

She half nodded, pulling the quilt up around her and settling deeper into the chair. "I love you…too…" she murmured, before drifting off again. Charles took a long satisfied glance around the tidy room, taking in the peaceful sight of his wife and Anna, both fast asleep. He gave the smallest of smiles and left.

* * *

**TBC...**


	29. Mr Carson the Laundry Maid

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

Charles entered the Bateses' cottage the next morning to see his wife going carefully down the stairs, one hand on the railing and a mountain of laundry balanced with the other. Her cane was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you think that…_wise_ Mrs. Carson?"

She almost dropped them at the sound of his voice. She'd been so focused on not falling that she hadn't heard him come in.

"Really, Charles! Please announce yourself! You know you scare me half to death when you don't."

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, "and might I take those off your hands?"

"I would appreciate it," she admitted, letting him take them from her. "It was a bit…ambitious of me."

He was glad she said it, not he. "What were you planning on doing with them?"

"Washing them. There's a laundry room in the basement, I think."

"Is there now?" said Charles, looking down the narrow basement stairs in abject horror. "Elsie, if you'd walked down these, you'd have broken your neck!"

"It can't be that bad," she responded. She hadn't considered the stairs to the basement being even more difficult than the main staircase.

"It is - even just walking them, never mind carrying a load of laundry! Did Anna ask you to do this?"

"No," admitted Elsie. "She's still asleep. I thought-"

"You'd get started on the washing," finished Charles crossly.

"Well, yes."

He studied her features for a moment, trying to see past his worry and anger at finding her in such a compromising and vulnerable position.

"That was very kind of you," he said finally. She could not hide her surprise at his response.

"Oh?" she said hesitantly, sensing there was much more to it than that.

"Yes," said Charles, for it was true. "_But_ I wish you'd waited for me to come along and help you."

She bit her lip, knowing he was right, but feeling defiant anyways. "And what do you know about laundry, Charles?"

"Not a thing," he admitted. "But I'm very good at carrying things and ensuring you don't go pitching down a flight of stairs. As your husband, would you grant me that?"

Her bottom lip quivered, as if she were about to cry. Silently she nodded. How foolish he must think her, trying to go beyond her means. How completely and utterly foolish.

"Elsie…"

Her eyes closed, but a few tears leaked out anyways. Charles set the bundle on the ground and took her by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, shaking her head. "You must think-"

"You've done nothing wrong," he interrupted her softly. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I know. I'm just…I don't know."

He pulled her into a warm hug, and suddenly she didn't feel quite so silly for crying anymore. "I do know," he rumbled into her hair. "You're marvelous, remember?"

She laughed through her tears into his chest. "Yes, marvelous."

"And you amaze me with what you're doing, Elsie, truly," he told her. "But you frighten me, too."

"I don't mean to frighten you," she said quietly.

"You don't have to do everything by yourself," he pointed out. "What if I help you with the laundry? Is that so terrible?"

She let go of him to wipe away that last of her tears. "I suppose it isn't."

"Well, then," he said, offering his elbow to her. "We've work to do."

* * *

"This is completely beneath you," she said, shaking out the sheets one by one.

"And it's not beneath you? When was the last time you were a laundry maid?"

"I did the linens in a pinch at Downton all the time, Charles." And she had. Whenever the laundry maids fell short (barely slips of girls that didn't stay in the big house, but rather came in from the village three times a week) it had been up to her to make up the work.

"Drying and folding maybe," he conceded. "Not the scrubbing, I'll reckon."

"Not the scrubbing," she admitted. "Not for a very long time. I preferred cleaning the house. As much as one can prefer it." She picked up a washboard and placed it in the laundry tub when Charles stopped her with a hand upon her wrist.

"You're forgetting something."

"I am, am I?"

"Yes," he replied. "Your fingers still have bandages on them."

"Right. That." They'd been on for so long, and hurt so little she'd gotten used to them, almost forgotten about them.

"Let me see them?" he asked, rubbing tiny circles on her palm with his finger.

"If you insist," she said, surrendering her hands to him. "They aren't painful."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed, carefully unwrapping them, one by one. "They do look better. The blisters must have drained at some point…"

"Seem to have callused over now," she remarked, touching them experimentally.

"So it would seem," he agreed, relinquishing them to her. "Well, Mrs. Carson, I'm no doctor, but I think we can tentatively give them a clean bill of health."

She nodded with mock seriousness, "My thanks."

He matched her tone, "My pleasure."

Her expression stayed ever serious. "Don't think this gets you out of helping with the scrubbing."

* * *

True to her word, Elsie set Charles up with the washboard and demonstrated the correct technique for washing sheets. She was too old for this - they both were – kneeling on the ground and scrubbing, but she'd set out to do it, and she wasn't about to quit. Once she'd demonstrated for him, she leaned back on her heels to allow him to try.

"You're not doing it right," she said, after listening to him for a few moments.

"How can you possibly know that?" he asked, turning to her.

She smiled. "Doesn't sound right. Heel of your hand, remember?" She shuffled over to help him, taking his hand and placing her tiny one over it. "Like this, _Mr. Carson_," she said cheekily, guiding him.

"Ah." He said, not watching the washing at all, but entirely mesmerized by her. Her firm grip on his hand and the determined way she set her mouth. Her body was pressed right up against his so that she could reach over him, and he could feel her warmth through her dress.

"And then you move over, take the next piece," she said, moving his hand, "and repeat." She finally let go of his hand and leaned back, letting him try for himself. He momentarily mourned the loss of her touch.

"I think you might need to show me again," he told her.

"It sounds all right now," she said, puzzled. "It's not difficult once you've got the technique.

"I suppose," said Charles, disappointed it hadn't worked. "But you might check anyways."

There was something flirtatious in his tone. Enticing. She decided to play along. "All right," she agreed, moving closer. She ran her hand lightly down his arm until she was covering his hand again.

"Like this, _Mrs. Hughes_?" he asked, smiling to see her blush slightly.

"Little bit firmer," she retorted, fully aware now of what he was doing. She pushed into the back of his hand to make her point, and it slipped, splashing a decent amount of soapy water on the two of them.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, touching her front, which was now wet.

"I'm sorry," said Charles hurriedly. "I'll get a towel." There were several hanging up to dry and he snatched the nearest one. He turned back to see her exploring the extent of the damage to the front of her dress. Charles cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Here," he said, pushing the towel into her hand, "perhaps you ought to…"

"Yes, thank you," she said clumsily patting her front dry. "Did it get you, too?"

"Some."

"Here," she reached out to give the towel to him, but he'd moved closer than she anticipated and she wound up hitting him in the chest.

"You missed one spot," he told her, noticing the soapsuds that somehow had ended up in her hair.

Carefully he wiped them away with the towel, smoothing out her hair with his fingers once it was gone. "That's better." In the very dim light of the basement, slightly damp and more than a little bit uncomfortable…all of that didn't seem to register for him. Only she did. He wasn't even sure how it happened really, one minute he was staring at her face, fingers still in her hair, and the next minute they were kissing as if their lives depended on it. Not the cautious little kisses they engaged in before bed. Far from it, in fact. He found her more than willing to match him, passionate and unrestrained. It was an inappropriate time, an inappropriate place, and a thoroughly uncomfortable position, awkwardly sprawled on the hard basement floor, but neither of them could bring themselves to _care. _

A great crash forced them to remember where they were,* and suddenly the moment turned from delight in panic.

"We must-" started Elsie.

"Upstairs," interrupted Charles, already pulling her to a standing position. The two of them flew up the stars as quickly as they could manage. With slight apprehension, Charles opened the bedroom door.

"Anna?" asked Elsie, frustrated beyond measure that she didn't yet know what had happened.

"I'm fine," said Anna weakly.

"You're on the floor," replied Charles flatly, effectively providing his wife with an explanation and Anna with a retort in the same breath.

"I might have fainted when I stood up," admitted Anna.

"Let's get you back in bed," said Charles, picking her up as if she weighed next to nothing, easing her back into bed, and tucking her in securely. It was an action Carson the butler wouldn't have dreamed of doing, but Charles hadn't hesitated. He would end up pondering this change at a later date.

"Are you hurt?" worried Elsie from the doorway.

"I don't believe so."

Charles reassured his wife with a gentle hand on her hip. "I'll let you take it from here," he told her. "But call for me if you need me?"

"We will," replied Elsie, "The laundry-"

"I'll see to it," he said. He leaned over and whispered so that only she might hear. "Though it will be considerably less enjoyable without you."

She blushed prettily, slightly flustered, but desperately trying not to show it in front of Anna.

"Very well," she said primly, her tone not matching her face one whit. Slightly amused, Charles took his leave.

"Laundry?" questioned Anna incredulously, once his footsteps had disappeared.

"I woke early, thought I'd get some of it started," said Elsie, waving off Anna's tone. "Mr. Carson was kind enough to give me a hand."

Anna, still groggy and slightly dizzy, was attempting to wrap her head around this fact. "Mr. Carson…is doing the laundry?"

"Just the sheets and things," said Elsie, finally stumbling into the chair she'd slept in the night before.

"Well, then," said Anna disbelievingly, "He shouldn't have to-"

"He asked to help," said Elsie, sternly putting an end to the conversation. "Now what is it you wanted when you made this ill-fated attempt at getting out of bed?"

"Water," croaked Anna meekly.

"I'll do that," replied Elsie automatically, holding out her hand. "You should have known better and called for-" she stopped abruptly.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Carson?" asked Anna, noticing the other woman lost in thought.

"I am," she replied, giving her head a little shake. "Just ask me for help when you feel dizzy."

"I will," came Anna's voice.

"That's better," said Elsie, almost entirely to herself.

* * *

Downstairs, Charles had finally figured out how to light the stove and prepared both tea and a pot of oatmeal. Standing in front of the stove had dried the remaining traces of their little adventure in the laundry room.

Elsie was most pleased to discover the warm, simple breakfast awaiting them when she finally came downstairs. Carefully she spooned the oatmeal into the bowls and placed them on the tray. Charles informed her that all of the laundry had been suitably rinsed and hung to dry, so there was no need for his wife to transverse those "blasted basement stairs again." He received a halfhearted frown for this comment, and Charles promised her it would be the last there was to be said on the subject. Before she went upstairs, Elsie had one last request of him.

"Anything you like," he told her.

"Cut three of the lemons into quarters, please," smiling at what she was sure was his confused face. His eyebrows furrowed together in that perplexed look he sometimes adopted.

"If you insist," he said, setting to work on the lemons. "I have errands to run if that would be all right with you?"

"I'm sure I can manage from here," she reassured him, picking up the tray with the trademark ease of a woman who had lived the majority of her life in service.

He surprised her by stealing one last kiss, leaning awkwardly over the tray in her arms and kissing her gently, but sincerely on the mouth.

"I _know _you'll manage or I wouldn't even _consider_ leaving," he told her, before shooing her up the stairs.

* * *

"No," said Anna again, scowling at the oatmeal before her.

"Yes," said Elsie kindly, picking up a spoonful. "You may eat it yourself, or I will spoon feed you." Elsie raised her eyebrows. "I assure you one will be considerably more of a mess than the other."

"I'll be sick again," protested Anna. "Even just drinking water-"

"You won't be sick, necessarily," argued Elsie. "Besides, that bairn needs more than water, and you know that."

"Very well," said Anna, taking the spoon.

"That's my girl," said Elsie, placing a hand on Anna's shoulder. "Just a wee bit to start, that's all."

"I still feel as if I'm going to be ill," said Anna nervously, after a few bites.

"Wait here. I've just the thing."

* * *

"Go on, eat it."

"You're mad."

"It will work," Elsie insisted, brandishing the slice of lemon in Anna's face. "One good bite."

A wave of nausea swept over Anna again, making up her mind. "If you say so." She took the lemon slice and bit into it, juice spilling down her chin. She almost spat it out, but clapped a hand over her mouth instead and forced herself to chew and swallow. By the time she'd finished, she was panting slightly.

"That was positively vile," said Anna, after a moment.

"Wash cloth?" offered Elsie, holding one out, straight faced.

"Please." Anna took it, wiping the drips of lemon juice from her face. She paused for a moment. "I…do feel better."

Elsie simply nodded, saying nothing. She'd hoped the old wives tale was true, and certainly wasn't going to tell Anna she'd done it on a whim, hoping for the best.

Anna settled herself back into a lying position, yawning sleepily. "I want to go back to sleep," she said, half question and half statement.

"Then go back to sleep, dear," said Elsie, taking the lemon rind from her and settling into the chair. "I'll be here."

"This must be frightfully boring for you," said Anna apologetically.

"It's fine," said Elsie. To be honest, she feared spending too much time sitting alone with her thoughts. She'd had quite enough of that.

Anna sat up suddenly.

"Everything all right?" asked Elsie.

"Here," said Anna, rummaging beside the bed. "It's here somewhere…"

"What?"

"This," declared Anna, placing a pair of knitting needles, with a ball of wool trailing off it in her lap. "I've already cast on, but I can't bear to work on it at the moment. You make it."

"You're sure?"

"The needles are large and there are only thirty stitches per row. It was meant to be a simple black scarf. I'm certain you can manage it. Just knit every stitch and then turn it."

"I'll drop stitches," said Elsie hesitantly, even as she touched the little bit of work on the needles.

"If you do," Anna yawned, "I'll pick them up for you after."

"All right," said Elsie, figuring the stitches. It was a soft wool, and it felt nice against her hands. Soon the needles were clicking away, slowly but steadily as she knit. Her hands remembered what do to, having made the motions many thousands of times in her lifetime. It filled hours and hours while Anna slept the day away, every single stitch a tiny accomplishment. By mid-afternoon, the thing was several feet long.

* * *

By the end of the evening, Anna had been ill only once, something Elsie considered to be a great success. She'd even woken up asking for more food, causing Elsie to put down her needles and go hunting through the larder for the makings of a "honey and cheese sandwich" as requested. Several more lemons, and endless cups of tea had made food bearable. She was chattier, too, talking about this and that with ease.

"I'd cast that scarf off if I were you," said Anna.

"Oh!" exclaimed Elsie, her fingers re-measuring it. "I suppose so…" she touched the knitting fabric again. "How many glaring errors have I made?" she asked, holding it out to Anna.

"None," said Anna simply. "It's perfect. If it's not so bold of me to suggest, perhaps you could give it to Mr. Carson for Christmas."

"It's not so bold..." said Elsie pensively, casting off. "He could use a new one. He might like this one."

"You made it. I can't think of anything he'd like more." Anna paused for a moment. "Well, not _much_ that he'd like more."

"Anna! Now that IS too bold. You must be feeling considerably better."

"I am," Anna yawned. "I can't believe it's Christmas Eve tomorrow."

"Nor I. Thank you for suggesting this Anna," said Elsie, as she folded the scarf carefully. "It was very..." she searched for the right word until she'd found it. "Satisfying."

"I had ulterior motives," admitted Anna.

"Oh?"

"Yes. When I was very little, whenever I took sick, my mother used to sit beside my bed and knit. All day and all night long if she had to. She was quite the knitter, my mother. And I knew as long as Mama was knitting, everything was fine."

A lump had formed in Elsie's throat as Anna spoke. "Well, I'm glad to be of service," she said finally.

Anna switched the topic for them. "It's getting rather late – where do you suppose Mr. Carson is?"

"What time is it?"

"Past nine." Anna replied.

Elsie was slightly startled. She hadn't realized it had grown quite so late. "I don't know," she said worrying her lip. Surely his errands hadn't taken so long. In fact, she didn't even know what he'd gone out for… Usually he told her, even when she hadn't cared to know.

"I'm sure he's fine," said Anna, taking in the worried expression. "Went home and had a nap or something. You know how men are about shopping."

"I suppose so," said Elsie slowly, still worried.

"Hello!" Twin voices came from downstairs, causing both of the women to jump.

"Charles?" called Elsie, sure she'd heard his deep voice.

"_John?!_" chimed in Anna. Her husband took his time with the stairs, but there was no mistaking his gait.

"Anna, Mrs. Carson," he greeted them, with a grin that was practically tangible.

"But you aren't supposed to be here until tomorrow!" exclaimed Anna.

"His Lordship changed his plans, and I can't say I objected," said Mr. Bates, giving his wife a brief kiss. "You look much better."

"Mrs. Carson," said Anna in explanation.

"Thank you ever so much then," Mr. Bates told Elsie. "Truly."

"Not at all," said Elsie.

Anna shook her head at her husband, her expression one of exasperated affection.

"Well, we're both very grateful to you," said Mr. Bates, refusing to let her minimize the part she'd played. "I met Mr. Carson when coming off the train – he's downstairs waiting for you."

"Hide the scarf," hissed Anna, as Elsie stood to go. She tucked the folded scarf as best she could beneath the jacket over her dress. "That will do."

"Good night, Anna, Mr. Bates," said Elsie, with a smile. "Take care."

Downstairs, Charles was indeed waiting for her. He longed to touch her immediately, but restrained himself, offering her coat instead. "How was your day? How's Anna?" he asked, helping her into it.

"She's doing much better. Our day went well," Elsie said, buttoning her coat. "Very well. But very exhausting."

"Well, my dear, I'd say it's time we headed home then."

She secured her hat and slipped her arm into his. "Yes," she murmured, leaning into him gently. "Home."

* * *

**TBC...**


	30. Mr Carson the Cook

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.**

* * *

By the time the Carsons reached their cottage, Elsie was practically asleep on her feet. This worked considerably to Charles's advantage, because he didn't have to do anything to hide the slight…rearrangement of their living room. She would have tumbled into bed in her clothing if he'd let her, but eventually he convinced her she'd be much more comfortable _out _of her corset. Having spent nearly two straight days in it, even half asleep Elsie couldn't argue with that.

He left the room while she changed, and by the time he returned she was already snoring softly, her body only half covered by the bed sheets. He smiled, sliding under them and pulling them up to cover them both. She murmured a sleepy thanks to him and he smiled at her, permitting himself to simply gaze at her for a quiet moment. Unable to entirely contain his pride in her, he leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, and then another, before blowing out the candle.

* * *

Morning woke Elsie with a myriad of strange smells. Most pungently…coffee? And bacon? Charles could be heard bustling around the kitchen as usual, but there was some manner of urgency that wasn't usually there. Elsie threw off the blankets, concerned that something might be upsetting him.

"Charles?" she called, not even bothering to find her dressing gown before poking her head out into the hall. "Is everything-"

"Everything is fine!" he shouted. "Just, um, go back to bed!"

"Why?" she asked, not moving from the doorway. "What's the matter?"

Charles took a break from his tasks and went to her to stop her from coming any further out of the bedroom. "Nothing," he promised, kissing her forehead. "Humour me and go back to bed?"

"All right," she conceded, giving in to his pleading tone with a slight smile.

"Thank you," he said gruffly, hurrying back to the kitchen. Elsie shook her head, but did as she was bid and make her way back to their bed.

Fifteen minutes later, Charles came through their bedroom door bearing a large breakfast tray piled high with toast, coffee, eggs and sausages. Elsie shuffled up into a sitting position so he might place the tray over her lap. He enjoyed her rather shocked expression as he described the contents of every plate.

"Mrs. Patmore did give me considerable advice about the eggs and sausages," he admitted. "And a lesson, or two."

"It's wonderful, Charles. But you've gone to so much trouble!"

"Don't married women usually eat breakfast in bed?" he asked proudly.

She arched an eyebrow in his direction. "Married _ladies, _Charles, as you very well know."

"I do. And while I do enjoy eating with you in the kitchen, I thought it might make a nice Christmas Eve tradition for us."

Their very own traditions. Elsie smiled at this idea. Happily she took a sip of the coffee, savoring the taste. "You spoil me," she commented.

"Would it help to know that I've waited several decades to be permitted to spoil you?"

Elsie went very still at this. "Several decades?" she mumbled.

Thankfully she couldn't see how red he'd turned. "Not decades – well – but –" he sputtered. "I don't know. That just sort of slipped out."

Sensing his unease, she reached out for his hand. "Charles, have you eaten?"

"I may have tasted the first two attempts at a decent fried egg…" he admitted, not sure where this was going.

"Then come here," she said, squeezing his hand slightly. "I couldn't possibly eat all this by myself." He let go of her and slid under the covers, sitting himself up against the headboard.

She turned towards him with a smile, and his embarrassment dissipated somewhat.

"There is no point in being so spoilt if one cannot share it," she said softly, offering him a piece of toast. He took it from her and kissed her on the cheek.

"I married a very wise woman," he said, grateful they weren't going to tarry on his remark just then. He wrapped an arm around her and moved closer so they both might reach the tray.

"Yes, and don't you forget it," she said with a small smile.

* * *

Long after they had finished eating, Charles and Elsie lay about in bed, neither in any great hurry to get up. They'd drawn out breakfast as long as they could, until they were just blatantly cuddling without a shred of pretense. Elsie had abandoned sitting up straight, and had drifted to rest her head on her husband's chest.

She knew they ought to get up, but there was something so satisfying in just lying there with him, listening, _feeling_ his easy breathing against her cheek.

"I like this Christmas Eve tradition," she offered, to finally break their silence.

"As do I," Charles agreed. With her ear pressed to his chest, his voice seemed to rumble even more than usual.

He noticed her face break into a smile and he wasn't quite sure why. He tapped her lightly on the nose with his forefinger. "Penny for them?"

"I like feeling your voice," she said, not caring if it sounded silly. It was the truest explanation she could think of.

He hummed for her benefit, and pressed a kiss into her hair. "You know, when we get up, there is another Christmas Eve tradition waiting for us."

That piqued her curiosity. "Oh? What's that?"

"You'll have to get up and find out," he said mischievously.

"What have you done?" she wanted to know, sitting up and knocking the tray that was still perched over her knee. "Oh!"

"It's fine," said Charles, reaching out and steadying it before a dish slid off. "I've got it."

"Thank you," she said shaking her head at herself. "I must have forgotten it was there."

"No harm done, love," he insisted.

"Good," she said, letting out a breath.

"I _think_ I will take it into the kitchen, however," he deadpanned, picking up the tray, "before you take it upon yourself to drop kick it out the window."

She laughed before she could help herself, making it difficult to arrange her face into a suitable frown. "It would seem that I've married a very silly man," she said with mock severity.

"Don't tell anyone," he returned, leaning in to kiss her one more time. "And don't you forget it."

* * *

"Charles, I'm up, and I'm dressed. Now would you please tell me what you've done?!"

He was being very secretive, and she was almost annoyed. At his request she stood in the living room door, waiting as he adjusted a few last pieces of furniture.

"I only just figured out this place, and you decide to rearrange it?" she scowled, growing less patient by the second.

"You'll like it, I promise," he assured her, taking her hands. "Come here."

She clasped his hands, and he led her into the center of the room. Her mind worked furiously at trying to unearth what he was about, but she couldn't come up with anything. He dropped her hands, and she stood there, stranded, until she felt him behind her. Gently he turned her towards the corner of the room.

"Put your hands out and walk forward," he said, his voice low in her ear.

"What?"

"Just do it," he said pleadingly. "I'm right here."

She took a step forward, and then two more, her arms outstretched. If it were anyone but him she wouldn't have put up with any of it, but she sensed his almost gleeful anticipation. She would humour him, if it mattered that much. She took another step, more confident this time, and-

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her hands colliding with a bristly wall of foliage. The smell of pine hit her, previously obscured by the smells of cooking and coffee. Now it was unmistakable as her fingers sought out bumpy branches with large soft needles.

"It's a Christmas tree!" she declared, delighted.

"It's _our_ Christmas tree," he said triumphantly, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her from behind. "All ours."

* * *

**TBC...**


	31. A Christmas Tree

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. This particular update is for nanniships, because she's pretty awesome.**

* * *

She leaned back happily into her husband's embrace. Their own Christmas tree - all to themselves. No wonder he'd been so mischievous that morning… She half wondered if the coffee hadn't been to overpower the smell so as not to ruin her surprise.

"Would you help me decorate it?" he asked, his voice rumbling in her ear.

"I don't think I'd be much help, Charles," she replied. "Besides, we haven't anything to put on it."

"I disagree on both accounts," he said, breaking their embrace.

"Do you now?" she said, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. "I must say you are full of surprises today."

"That was the intention," replied Charles, who seemed to have gone over to the corner of the room. "Here were are. Christmas decorations."

He took her hand and guided her onto the sofa, placing a large box carefully in her lap. She opened it and her fingers ran over what seemed to be little lumps wrapped up worn rags.

"They're hardly extravagant," he said, sounding almost embarrassed now after putting on such a show. "But they are ours."

"A gift from the Crawleys, I assume," she poked, wondering at his guarded tone. He was always very defensive when it came to –

"No. My father made them."

Suddenly the room felt very still. He'd never spoken of his father, not once. She would have remembered. She reached out for him, balancing the box on her lap, and clasped his arm with her hand.

"Tell me?" she ventured.

She heard him sigh ever so slightly. "There isn't much to tell," he rumbled. "I didn't know him long or in particularly well in that short time."

His words were clinical, as if he could dismiss the topic with his gruffness, but he'd said more than enough for Elsie to know there was something there. Something he didn't ever get to say, maybe didn't want to say. Probably ought to say. And if there were ever a person in his life to say it to…

She pulled a bundle out of the box, but refused to unwrap it, instead casting the rest of the box aside and shifting to be closer to him. She cradled the little cloth-wrapped figure in one hand, and the other rested gently on his arm. She waited a moment before nudging. Slightly.

"The only way I can see is if you tell me," she said softly.

She had a way with secrets, his wife. He'd marveled about it countless times over the course of their shared career at Downton. At ferreting them out, at keeping them, and moving them around as she saw fit. Sometimes it felt as if he were on the outside looking in, knowing that she knew something he did not. Knowing that no amount of pushing would get it out of her if she'd made up her mind. It had been a blow to his ego more than once, but if he was truly honest, he didn't always mind. 'Mrs. Hughes is the one for a secret.' No matter how big or how small. There was something about her, and everyone else, from the youngest hall boy to her Ladyship had seen it. She was the only person he'd ever told about Alice, and for all her meddling, he couldn't say he'd ever truly regretted it. If anyone had ever gotten him to open up his heart and look inside, it was her.

"I will try," he said uncertainly. She nodded, and he studied her expression. Soft. Kind. The corners of her mouth were turned up slightly, not quite into a smile, but carrying a hint of one. Waiting, but certainly not impatient or irritated with him. How she managed to have so much patience with him was something he loved dearly about her.

"My father and I were not particularly close growing up," he said. "My mother died before my second birthday and I don't think he really knew what to do with me."

He paused, not sure if he wanted to go back there, not even with her beside him, holding onto him.

"That must not have been easy," she offered, her words pushing at his hesitations.

"He tried, I think. But it wasn't natural to him, child rearing. Besides, he spent most of his time working or looking for work."

"What did he do?" she asked.

"Anything, everything, it seemed," he said. "It would change monthly – road work, deliveries, whatever there was that needed doing. I was too young to help, and he was too busy trying to make ends meet. Needless to say, we didn't have much money, but there was always food on the table. But the fear that there wouldn't be, that was always present."

A life walking on a knife's edge, terrified of falling into complete poverty from one failed crop was something familiar to Elsie. She had craved stability, consistency from a young age. Clearly so had he.

He took the little figure wrapped in cloth from her and unwrapped it slowly. "He didn't ever say it, but I knew he cared about me. In his own quiet way, I suppose. Sometimes, in the evenings after supper, he would whittle toys for me."

He placed the figure in her hands, and Elsie ran her fingers over it. A little man with what seemed like a musket or some such thing leaning on his shoulder.

"A wooden toy soldier?" she asked.

"That's right," Charles confirmed. "That is how I remember my father – the smell of pipe tobacco and whittling away beside the fire place. He was a man of few words, so we'd sit in silence, he whittling and I watching. I used to sweep up the scraps afterwards and throw them into the fire. I had no aunts or uncles that I ever knew of, or I would have been shipped off to them. It was just him and me. Lonely at times."

"I imagine it would be," said Elsie, stroking his arm in a soothing motion. He wasn't sure if she even realized she was doing it.

"He wasn't a man of little talent, but he was one of little ambition. I never liked that, but it wasn't my place to criticize him for it. I never did understand him, and I don't think he understood me. I always half wondered when he away stayed late what I would do if he never come home at all."

"I'm sorry," she told him. It wasn't fair for a child to live with that worry as a companion.

"It is what it is," said Charles indifferently. Elsie bit her lip to keep from objecting at how high a standard he still held his childhood self to. How unfair.

"What happened to him?" she asked instead.

"He died," Charles said simply. "An accident while he'd been helping on a neighboring farm."

Elsie inhaled sharply, "Oh-"

"I didn't want to go to an orphanage," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush now. Just as she'd always held the keys to everything, this too she'd managed to unlock, and now the story burst forth, longing to be free. "I was dead set on not ending up in a place like that. It turns out all of my planning wasn't for naught. I took my father's suitcase and packed up every valuable possession I had, along with many of the toys he'd made me and my mother's wedding ring. I took everything I could fit in that suitcase, along with the small amount of money my father had hidden for emergencies. And I ran."

She swallowed back the wave of emotion that crashed into her. She could be steady, for her sake as much as for his. "How old were you?"

"Ten," he replied. "Scrawny back then, if you can believe it. I ran to the train station, bought a ticket for the first train out and ended up at Downton Station."

"You must have been terrified," she said, shaking her head.

"Out of my mind," he admitted. "But I was determined to get away, find myself a real job."

"And you did," she said, the pieces of the puzzle coming together. "At Downton?"

"Yes. I didn't know better, I marched right up to several houses only to be turned away at the door. Downton Abbey was the grandest of them all, and it was going to be my last attempt before I tried to find a barn to sleep in for the night. I walked right up to the front door at half past eight in the evening and asked to see the Earl of Grantham." Charles gave an exasperated sigh at the memory.

"I had nothing to lose at that point. I'm not certain if the old Earl thought me mad or amusing, but he insisted I be taken on all the same. I would be a hall boy and sleep in the attics. I worked for my room and board for the next six years."

His immense devotion to the family was brought rapidly into focus for her. It had driven her downright batty at times, the way he held them upon a pedestal, but now she understood so much more deeply why.

"You never went back? Never even to see where your father was buried?"

"I don't even know where he would be," said Charles. "I'd kept the things he'd made for me in an effort to remember him, but after a time he himself faded into a distant memory. A man I can faintly picture, but not a man I ever knew."

"I see," said Elsie quietly. _They're all the family I've got..._The really had been his salvation. His only family. Until her of course.

"I don't even know why I've kept them all," he said, lifting another one out of the box. "I never envisioned having children of my own-"

"But they are where you come from," said Elsie simply. "Roots. Something tangible to remind you that you weren't born in the Downton airing cupboard, and there is something in that, or you wouldn't still have them."

He considered this. "I suppose you're right," he said slowly. "I even turned each of them into ornaments when I became the butler of the house, thinking I might put them on the downstairs tree, but I could never bring myself to explain it."

"Well, now you have, so shall we put them up?" she asked, holding up the wooden solider.

"I suppose we ought to."

"That was the idea, wasn't it?" said Elsie, her tone lightening the serious mood somewhat.

"Yes, it was. I just…I wasn't sure what you'd think."

"I think it's an excellent idea," she said sincerely. "Here, I'll unwrap them and you hang them as you see fit." She held out the toy solider to him with a smile and he took it gently from her fingers, letting their hands touch for an inordinately long time. They'd perfected the art of _not _touching each other in their decades together at the Abbey. Never bumping knees under the servant's hall table or making any contact when handing other a dish. Before all this she'd held his hand exactly twice in two decades, at the death of their dear Lady Sybil and as a steadying hand on the Brighton beach. But this was different. Slow and tender. And deliberate. Desired.

And once he'd taken the figurine from her fingers, he took her hand in his large one, coaxed in her fingers to uncurl, and placed a kiss of gratitude on the center of her palm.

And so began a ritual of her carefully unwrapping each little toy. Trains, people, snowmen, birds. She would touch each one carefully, hazard her best guess as to what it was, and give it to him. Every time, she received a gentle kiss in return, on her palm, her wrist, the tip of each finger. They carried on until they'd run entirely out of ornaments and he sat back down beside her.

"All finished."

"I'm sure it's quite lovely, Charles."

"Very lovely."

She didn't know that he wasn't looking at their tree at all, but instead at her hands, neatly folded in lap when he responded.

So he took her hands, and brought them to his mouth again, kissing her knuckles, and her fingertips. Over and over until she was completely sure what he'd really been speaking of.

* * *

**TBC...**


	32. Shortbread

My thanks to chelsie fan, for her wonderful beta work, and to deeedeee for all the shortbread advice.

* * *

His lips on her fingers made her breath catch, and the decorated tree was practically forgotten for a moment. No words, just a lovely feeling that spread warmth from her hands right through her body. Eventually, slowly, he dropped her hand and she could hear his breathing, his face surely mere inches away.

Suddenly that warm feeling that had blossomed in her twisted into a painful longing to see him. To know the look in his eye when he'd preformed that simple but devoted act of touching her. She wanted it in that moment more than she'd ever wanted anything.

"What is it, Elsie?"

She was full of frustration and joy all at once, and it must have shown on her face.

"I wish…" her chest tightened and she couldn't say the rest of it. Another idea occurred to her instead. She lifted her hands up, praying he'd understand. "I want to look at your face," she said. "Might I touch it?"

"Of course you might," he responded.

Somewhat awkwardly she reached for him, and he guided her hands to his cheeks for her. She smiled when he did, before her mouth turned back down into the concentrated little frown she adopted whenever she was focusing particularly hard. She moved slowly, her thumbs starting around his jaw line, feeling the faintest hint of stubble, probably still invisible to the eye, but not to her. The cleft of his chin and up his lips, lips that had kissed her so softly over and over. He didn't move; he just sat there next to her, mesmerized by this new kind of looking. Her hands were soft, gentle, but purposeful as she traced his nose, one she'd seen on his face for several decades but had never felt before now. Not wanting to linger anywhere for too long, lest she make him self-conscious, she moved on to his eyebrows, wiry and wild as they'd always been. Angled up, though, like she'd rarely seen them. Only when he was exceedingly happy or intrigued did they do that. She'd noted that the day of Lady Mary's wedding, the day he'd looked so proud, stated so firmly how pleased he was. She thought on this as her fingers traced his hairline, greying now like her own, but less – the words 'battled into submission with Brilliantine' came to mind – than it used to be.

Slowly she dropped her hands away from his face, contented now. Seeing him this way had partially satisfied that little piece of her that had wished so hard to know how he looked at her. The way she'd dreamed he looked, she thought. The way…the way she wanted him to look at her.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes," she said, letting out a breath. "I think so."

"Good," he said, touching her cheek and kissing her softly. She smiled against his lips and cuddled into him again, as he wrapped one arm securely around her.

"There is something else our Christmas Eve is missing," she said after a time.

"And that would be …?"

"As far as I know, our kitchen does not have any biscuits, and _that_ is practically sacrilegious, if I know you."

He laughed, a great belly laugh, and gave her a little squeeze. "You know me too well. What sort of biscuit did you have in mind?"

"Well, we ought to start with your favourite," she said sensibly.

"You want to bake a shortbread?" he asked in surprise. "Isn't that a rather difficult one?"

She scoffed at him. "You are forgetting one important element, Mr. Carson."

He paused, unsure of what she was referring to. She fumbled to grasp his hand before pulling him to his feet and towards the kitchen.

"_You_ have a Scottish wife," she replied smartly.

* * *

"Just three ingredients?"

"Just the three," she replied, "Oh, some people put a bit of salt in it, but it's no improvement. Bless Beryl for stocking us up with the correct sugar. That woman is thorough."

"She is," said Charles, surveying the shockingly large collection of baking ingredients that had been laid out on their counter. She'd asked for sugar and he'd presented her with half a dozen unmarked containers, unable to figure out which was which. They all seemed like _possibly_ sugar to him.

"Next time, we ought to insist she label them," Elsie had groused at the time, pinching each one between her fingers until she found the powdered sugar. Charles had filed that thought away for future reference. A written label wouldn't do her any good, but a physical one…

"Charles?"

He realized he'd been lost in their prior conversation and had completely missed whatever she'd just said.

"Sorry, what's that now?"

"Were you away with the fairies? I asked for a mixing bowl. We're going to need a very large one."

"Right!" He snapped back into paying attention with more vigor than strictly necessary, and his wife hid an amused smile from him.

"First, you beat the butter and sugar together. Once it's creamed properly, we can add the flour."

"Creamed properly?" He asked, as she unwrapped the pound of soft butter and dropped it into the bowl.

"'Whipped into shape' was my mother's preferred expression," she said. "Would you add a half cup of sugar to this?"

Keen to be of help, Charles painstakingly measured out the half cup. Elsie bit her lip as she listened to him fussing.

"What is so funny?" he frowned, adding the half cup carefully.

"I was just thinking. Back home the measuring cup cracked when I was little and instead of replacing it we just used to eyeball it instead."

She reached for the whisk on the counter and began to whip the butter – which was now half melted by now from sitting near the stove - and sugar together with surprising force.

"I sense this was a popular dish in the Hughes household," said Charles, watching her work briskly.

"Aye, it was," she said, thickening her accent without even noticing. "Made every week without fail. Saturdays, usually."

"And you helped? I assume your mother made it."

He hoped he wasn't prying too much. They'd never talked about her childhood or much of Scotland at all beyond idle words about what the countryside was like whenever the Family went up to visit. Happily for him, she smiled at her memories and didn't seem to mind his asking.

"Most of the time, yes. Though once I was old enough, I often made it by myself. Lorna never did have a head for baking…It required patience and a bit of math, but she tended to be a bit...well…" She trailed off uncomfortably, wanting but not wanting to go there. Charles sensed her unease and brought them back to the task at hand.

"How long does it take to cream?" he asked, sure that she must be getting tired by now.

"Until it's finished," she teased. "Otherwise the shortbread will have a sort of dense texture, and it makes incorporating the flour a right pain." She stopped her vigorous mixing for a moment. "It's still fairly yellow, yes?"

He peered into the bowl to be sure. "Yes," he affirmed.

"Then it has a ways to go," she panted. "Goodness, I'm beginning to see why Daisy was so keen on that kitchen mixer."

"Let me have a go. I think I've got the idea."

"Very well," she said, relinquishing the bowl to him. "I won't say no to a break."

He wondered if she knew that her accent was still thicker. Making shortbread brought her home in a way, and he wanted to leave that window open as long as she would permit.

"I must admit, it's more difficult than I thought," said Charles, struggling to get the movements right without dropping the bowl. "You made it look so easy, but it's very dense."

"When it stops feeling that way it's about finished," she told him.

Charles tried to mix it more quickly, but it always made the bowl slip from his grip and he returned to a slower, steadier pace. Elsie shook her head at the sound. "Come on!" she chided him. "Are you telling me the grand butler of Downton Abbey isn't any stronger than a new kitchen maid at whipping a bit of butter?"

He furrowed his brow, reminding himself that she was only teasing and it was good just to see her happy again. "I'm not the _grand butler _of Downton Abbey anymore, my dear," he managed. He tried to pick up the pace again, but she moved to stop him.

"It was a _joke_, Charles. Besides, it comes out terrible if over-stirred. Give it here." He handed the bowl to her, and she used her finger to sample a bit of it, prodding at it with her fingertips before popping a bit of batter directly into her mouth. Charles felt himself flush for reasons he couldn't – or didn't want to – identify.

"I think that might be it," she said. "Any more and they tend to go flat."

"I didn't know you knew so much about shortbread."

"I have messed up this recipe six ways from Sunday, and done it correctly considerably more. I think I shall go to my grave with the recipe rattling around in my head."

"I'd rather not think of that," he said, looking rather pained. "Not for a long time."

"Very well," she agreed, putting the bowl down. "Not for a long time."

"Good," said Charles, "now what?"

"Now, we fold in the flour. Why don't you measure out two cups? Then we it mix it in carefully."

Once again, Charles was very meticulous in his measuring, but he came up with precisely two cups of flour. She shook her head at how slow and painstaking he made such a simple task, but it garnered no response from him this time. Silently, she combined in the flour, focusing on getting it even, before asking him to get the flour tin again.

"Do we need more?" he asked, puzzled.

"It's for the counter top," she replied as if this were perfectly obvious.

He frowned at her tone. "For the _counter top?" _

"Yes, you silly man. Unless you'd like to knead the dough permanently into the kitchen counter?"

He huffed. "Well, how should I know? You're worse than Mrs. Patmore chastising Daisy!" He winced immediately his harsh words, and tripped over himself to apologize. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound like I was comparing her situation to – Dear, God, I'm so sorry." His head and shoulders drooped as he mumbled his apologies over and over.

Elsie dropped the dough she'd been balling up and bit her lip in her embarrassment. She wasn't offended, as clearly he worried she might be. Instead she felt properly ashamed of herself. "My apologies, Charles," she said softly, "I only meant it as a bit of a laugh, but I've offended you."

He paused before speaking in an even, measured tone, "I didn't mean to snap back. It is I who should be apologizing."

She considered him for a moment. Hurt and guilt and confusion filled the space between them. "Charles, you are allowed to be offended by what I say if the situation warrants. And you are also allowed to tell me what you think of it. I'm not made of fine china."

"I didn't want to upset you. I _never _want to upset you."

"Oh, dear," she said shaking her head. "Come here." She reached out for him, and wrapped her hands around his middle, pressing her head against his chest. "Charles you _are _going to upset me from time to time, just as _I _am going to upset _you._"

He sighed, hugging her close and stroking her shoulders with his thumbs. "I suppose it is not entirely avoidable."

"We haven't been able to avoid it for over twenty years. I don't think that's about to change anytime soon. It's normal, Charles. It's _necessary_, not the end of the world."

"No, I expect it's not," he agreed, some of the tension in his body finally releasing.

"But, Charles," she said, her voice a little bit heavier with emotion. "You must help me. You must _say _if you think I've teased or pushed you too much. You've never had any trouble with that before."

"Before you weren't…before you'd never been so…"

"Sad," she finished bluntly. "I know that was hard on you, and I'm sorry for that. I think I always will be." He held her tighter, trying to let her know she had nothing to be sorry for. She shook her head and carried on. "But make no mistake, Charles, I'm still the woman you knew before. You needn't be walking on eggshells quite so much."

"Very well," he said quietly. "No more eggshells."

"No more eggshells." She waited a beat before saying slightly meekly, "but flour, on the counter top? Please…and thank you?"

He chuckled, and hugged her warmly. "I'll see to it."

* * *

They made short work of kneading the dough, and Charles discovered he was actually quite good at it. Elsie made a point of praising his efforts to make up some for teasing him earlier. Eventually he'd rolled it out into a very neat little circle.

"Is it ready to bake?" he asked, looking it over.

"Not quite. Now you twist the edges. Here, I'll show you." He guided her hands to the countertop, where the shortbread dough lay and she began to pinch the edges up in a repeated little pattern. Charles watched in fascination.

"But won't those bits burn sooner?" he said.

"I don't plan on burning any of it at all, actually," she pointed out.

"Well, no- but- I just fail to see why the edges should be different," he explained.

"Perhaps because it's pretty?" she suggested.

"Pretty."

"It's just how it's _done_, Charles. Surely you of all people appreciate that."

He huffed good-naturedly. "You've got me there."

Elsie twisted the last of the dough, so it formed a lovely little border around the entire thing. "Now we score it and poke the holes. Would you mind?"

"That I can do," he said, picking up a knife and pressing it down into the dough. This part he was at least familiar with, having eaten many shortbreads in his life, and knowing how big to score the pieces.

"You should probably do the design too; it will likely be much neater than mine," she said, handing him a fork. Carefully he went about prodding their little creation forming a pattern of letters, one in the center of each slice…C…E…C…E…

"Would you like to see?" he asked her proudly after he'd finished and placed it into the baking pan.

"I suppose I must," she said, holding out her hands. Once again, he guided them gently and she ran her fingers over the pattern he'd imprinted. He watched her carefully, thrilled when her face broken into a smile when she realized what he'd done.

"Charles, that's delightful," she said happily. "Perfect. It just needs cooling now."

"Back home, how did you cool it?" he asked, keen to open the door to her past back up if she was willing.

"We'd just throw it in the loch for a spell."

He paused, staring at her.

"Don't give me that face," she scolded, not entirely able to keep a smile from showing.

"You could not _possibly_ know what face I'm making," he protested.

"And yet I do," she said, grinning wickedly.

He sighed audibly, knowing she was almost certainly right about his expression. He shook himself slightly. "Right; let me just make some room in the icebox…"

He was already puttering around in the icebox when she started laughing. He stopped at the lovely sound ringing through their kitchen and turned towards her. She was shaking her head at him.

"We'll just set it out on the back step, Charles. It is the dead of winter. That ought to chill it well enough."

She opened the back door and bent to place the pan carefully down on the back step. It was clear of snow; Charles had diligently seen to that.

"There. It will chill nicely now," she said, decidedly pleased. She shivered as she closed the door, having let in a fairly cold draft.

He went to wrap his arms around her, to keep her from becoming cold herself, but she unknowingly dodged him as she made for the sink.

"For how long do you suppose?" asked Charles.

"Out in the snow? I don't imagine very long." She turned on the taps to wash her hands properly. Before she was finished she could feel him behind her again, his hands running up and down over her sides, settling on her hips and pulling her towards him. She smiled and shook her head slightly, so he responded by kissing her neck, up to just behind her ear, leaving her slightly dizzy.

"You are in a state," she murmured, not knowing what to do with her hands anymore, not wanting to wet his clothing by touching him.

"Is that state unwelcome?" he asked, his face nuzzling her hair. He already knew the answer by the way she leaned back into him, pressing.

"No," she said, "but I find myself a bit restrained like this."

"Well, we can't have that," he said, turning her in his arms, and pinning her right back against the counter.

"My hands are still wet," she protested weakly, as his mouth found her neck again.

"Hang it," he muttered between kisses.

Very well then. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling his head up to kiss her properly on the mouth. There was something strangely exciting about being pinned so firmly against the kitchen counter, feeling his entire body pressing into hers. He moved slowly, still being careful not to overwhelm her, not wanting her to pull back, but if anything she leaned in, crushing her lips against his. He broke their kiss only to immediately start kissing her cheek, up her jawline until he found that sensitive spot behind her ear that made her shudder slightly. Happy that they'd found some equilibrium again, he grew bolder, kissing down her neck as her head fell back and her hands scrambled for purchase on the kitchen counter. Eventually she gave up and braced herself on his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

He managed to undo several buttons of her dress, without letting her so much as move. She moaned as he pressed hot kisses through the fabric of her shift. The warmth of his mouth was replaced with a cool chill when he moved on to a new spot, causing her to remember why they were there in the first place.

"Charles." It came out breathier than she intended and he only groaned, and continued his path of kisses up her neck.

"Charles," she said more firmly. "It's going to freeze if we don't fetch it."

"Fetch what?" he muttered, entirely enraptured with the way she tasted, with the way she felt beneath his fingertips, and pressed against him tight.

"The shortbread," she said, not wanting him to pull away, but also not wanting all their hard work to be for naught. "It's going to freeze if we don't put it in the oven."

The oven had been heating since this entire baking endeavor had begun. Charles reluctantly let go of her, taking care to do up the few buttons he'd undone before going to fetch the shortbread. He opened the oven door to put it in as instructed, but as he pulled his hand out, his forearm brushed the top of the oven door, causing him to yelp in pain.

"Charles!?"

A sharp intake of breath was her response, followed by the slamming of the oven door.

"Charles, are you all right?" she demanded, frustrated that she was standing there, helpless, when clearly he was not all right.

"It's just a little burn," he said through clenched teeth. "I brushed my arm against the door.

She made a sympathetic noise and ushered him to sit down. "I'm so sorry," she said shaking her head. "I should have warned you about things on the top rack-"

"Elsie, this is hardly your fault. It was an accident."

She didn't seem to hear him; she was too focused on wetting a cloth with cool water for him.

"Here. Does it look like it's blistered? Purple?" she asked desperately, offering him the cloth.

"Just red," he assured her. "It will be fine, my dear. Thank you."

She twisted her hands together unhappily, not sure what else she could do in that moment.

"We should have some ointment in the medicine cabinet, but we'll want to get it cooled off first. Are you holding the cloth right on it? I know it's painful, but it's the best way-"

"Elsie, stop it," he said gently, putting an end to her rambling. "It's fine. Come here." She walked towards him and with his good arm he pulled her by the waist and urged her to sit on his lap. She complied willingly, forcing herself to take a breath. It wasn't like her to lose her head like that. What had come over her?

He took her hand and placed it on the cool compress. "Could you hold this for me please?" he asked. She nodded.

"The burn is about this large," he explained as he pressed a single finger into the flesh on her forearm. "Right about there. It's pretty red, but it shouldn't last."

"All right," she said, much calmer. "Is it painful?"

"It smarts," he admitted. "Perhaps you might distract me?"

"Did you have something in mind?" she asked, settling herself more comfortably on his lap, while keeping one hand on the cloth to monitor its temperature.

"I did," he said. "I was wondering if you could tell me the best way you've ever managed to ruin a batch of shortbread. Surely there's one or two that stand out."

She grinned at him. "I can think of one or two. Though the absolute best one has to be when I was nine and my Aunt Nan came from England to visit…Oh, and for this one it's important to note that we had about two dozen chickens back then…"

* * *

TBC...


	33. Christmas Day

**With my thanks to chelsie fan for the beta work. **

* * *

The first Christmas day Charles and Elsie spent as a married couple would prove to be an enjoyable one. For the first time, the moments of silence were more comfortable than uncertain. Church in the morning ran perfectly smoothly, and afterwards, a time when the servants were usually rushing back to the house, Elsie found herself approached by Mr. Barrow, who invited them back to the Abbey for luncheon.

"You're certain now?" Elsie had asked the new butler, standing in the back of church as he helped her into her coat. Charles had chosen to stay back, frowning at Mr. Barrow as Elsie spoke with him. Whatever could that man want?

"Your presence would be welcome," Mr. Barrow assured her, his voice strangely vulnerable to her ear.

"Is everything at the house all right?" They _had_ thrown the organization of the house into a bit of chaos by having the housekeeper and the butler leave so suddenly. Elsie had not thought of how poorly that might have gone until just then. Perhaps they needed a bit of help.

"It is, actually," said Mr. Barrow, considerably more sharply. "I just thought some of the staff might _enjoy_ your company, but if you have a previous engagement, then-"

"Mr. Barrow," said Elsie, gently stopping his diatribe. "I meant no offense. Your offer is very kind, and I appreciate it. We would be quite happy to accept."

"Well, I'm pleased to hear it," said Mr. Barrow, straightening up slightly.

"Twelve thirty, as usual? We'll be sure to get out of your way as soon as it's over," said Elsie.

"Twelve-thirty," confirmed Mr. Barrow. "Now if you will excuse me, I'd best be getting back."

He tipped his hat, despite the gesture going unseen by her. It did not go unseen, however, by Charles, who took it as his cue to cut in. Once the new butler was well out of earshot, he leaned in to whisper.

"What on earth was _that _all about?"

Elsie turned to her husband with an amused expression on her face. "It seems, my dear, that we have a luncheon invitation."

* * *

"He's got something up his sleeve," grumbled Charles, as he and Elsie made their way towards the Abbey. "I'm sure I'm the last person he wants to see today."

"You make it sound like some horrible trap," she scolded.

"He's a horrible man. Why should he be kind now?"

"He is _not_ horrible," she insisted. "He's just very…"

"If you say 'misunderstood,' then I'm going back to the cottage," huffed Charles.

"I wasn't about to," said Elsie quickly. "But he's not some kind of villain, Charles, and clearly he is managing the household all right or we'd have heard about it by now."

"I still don't like it. Mr. Barrow is never kind without a self-serving reason."

Elsie frowned. "I think, on this we will always disagree."

"You give that man far too much benefit of the doubt, Elsie."

"And you give him far too little," she objected. "He's doing us a kindness by inviting us. The least we can do is to show him some respect in return."

"Coming from the woman whom he called 'bloody useless,'" Charles grumbled.

"And I put him in his place for that, wouldn't you say?" said Elsie, with exaggerated saccharinity.

"I suppose you did," he admitted.

"It is for me to be offended by that, not you, Charles," she pointed out. "And I have forgiven him, so I suggest you do the same."

"I still don't trust him as far as I can throw him," grumbled Charles.

"It's Christmas," said Elsie brightly, squeezing his arm. "Whatever he does, kindly refrain from throwing him."

* * *

The servant's luncheon proved to be surprisingly pleasant for all. While Mr. Barrow was not about to relinquish his seat at the head of the table, Mr. and Mrs. Carson had been set places of honour on the left hand side, and all had been delighted to see them. It seemed Mr. Barrow had kept the invitation a secret and won himself considerable points with the staff when it was made clear whom the extra place settings were for.

The conversation was loud and overlapping, making it slightly difficult for Elsie to follow as she might once have. Discreetly, Charles cut her turkey and poured her water, so she might have less trouble. If anyone noticed, no one commented. She couldn't help blushing when she had difficulty with a forkful, but there was so much excited chatter that it didn't seem to draw attention. Eventually, she almost felt easy about it, even teasing Mrs. Patmore about the pudding. This had once been her home. Not everything had changed.

* * *

Several hours later, Charles and Elsie found themselves taking a meandering walk back to their cottage. The din of the house had faded from their minds, and after so long away, it was startling at how abrasive all that chatter could be.

"I never thought I could relish life being quiet so much," commented Elsie.

"Just so long as it's never silent again," said Charles distantly.

The minute he said it, he wished he could take it back. He couldn't help it; somehow a little bit of hurt had come out at the most unexpected time. They both stopped dead in the middle of the road, holding on to each other, frightened and steadily growing colder.

"Charles," said Elsie, her voice breaking slightly. "I'm sorry that-"

"No," he interrupted. "That wasn't fair to you. It wasn't _ever_ your fault."

"It was," she said, biting her lip and dropping her chin. "Some of it was."

"I'm not going to argue with you. It wasn't, Elsie Carson, and that's the end of it."

She shook her head, trying not to cry, which would surely only make everything worse. Charles took a gloved hand and tipped her chin up towards him.

"Sometimes, no one is to blame," he told her.

"I'm still sorry," she whispered.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "If it helps."

"It does," she admitted. "It wasn't fair to you, and I'm sorry."

"That does not make it your fault," he said. And there, in the middle of the road for anyone to see, Charles bent and kissed her. Softly. Slowly. An apology and his forgiveness all in one.

"All right then," she said finally. "Not my fault."

"Not your fault," he agreed, caressing her cheek and wiping away a stray tear that had escaped despite her best efforts. He bent and kissed her one more time. "Now, might we go home? There's a present under the tree with your name on it."

Elsie smiled, and slipped her arm into his. "Lead on, my man."

* * *

"It hardly anything… It's silly, really."

She'd had only brown paper to wrap her present in, nicked from Mrs. Patmore earlier that day, and she wondered now if it weren't all a bit shabby. She blushed as she handed it to him. It wasn't exactly easily to tie up a scarf neatly to begin with, let alone without seeing it in the process.

"Hmm," muttered Charles, in a tone that told her he didn't believe her one bit.

She listened to the sounds of the paper crinkling with bated breath, hoping he wouldn't be too disappointed.

"Elsie, did you _make this?" _he said, his voice full of surprise.

"Yes," she mumbled, "Anna suggested it. If you don't like it-"

"It's perfect," he interrupted; keen to stop her little litany of dismissive comments. "It's exactly what I've been needing, and…this is really quite incredible, Elsie."

"It's only a scarf," she said, blushing even deeper.

"Made by my wife," said Charles. "Made by my beautiful, talented wife. I couldn't knit a scarf if my life depended on it, and you've gone and made one without ever looking at it."

"I suppose I have," she said, smiling slightly. His wife. How proud he sounded when he said that. "Anna did help."

"That doesn't make it any less impressive," said Charles, still marveling over it.

"All right, then," she said, biting her lip. She had genuinely managed to impress him, and it gave her a little spark of pleasure to know that.

Seeing her lower lip disappear, as it so often did, gave Charles a playful idea. He wrapped the scarf around her shoulders and used it to pull her closer to him, peppering her face with light kisses until she half fell into his lap, half laughing.

"Impressive," he said firmly, letting the scarf drop and wrapping his arms around her instead. "I'm not letting you go until you believe me."

"I've half a mind never to believe you then," said Elsie, still slightly breathless from laughing.

"That wasn't what I was going for."

"And what _were_ you going for?" she teased, her hands on his chest to settle herself more comfortably in his lap.

"This," he said, capturing her lips in a warm kiss.

Every time he kissed her, there was something more wonderful about it. _Practice, _insisted the logical side of Elsie's brain, but she didn't entirely believe that. Certainly, they were more used to how to kiss each other now, but there was something else to it. _The man you love … loves you, Elsie, _she thought. _Loves you. _

And in that love, she was warm and safe…and impressive. To him, she was impressive, and a little piece of her started to believe that. A little piece of light that nothing could touch. She snaked her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer, as if somehow she would be able to see herself the way he saw her if she were close enough.

"Elsie, love, are you quite all right?"

She was surprised by the way he broke off their kiss so suddenly, and then she realized there were tears on her cheeks. When had they appeared?

"Yes," she said, wiping them away. "I'm just…happy."

"You're sure?" His tone indicated that he still had doubts.

"Absolutely," she assured him. She touched his cheek, and the faintest hint of stubble was noticeable. Slowly she traced her way to the corner of his lip, and smiling, she kissed him firmly, pleased to feel him respond by tightening his arms around her. She _was_ happy. Overwhelmingly so. It was still a slightly foreign sensation, oddly, but she was going to revel in it.

When they stopped, neither pulled away, but instead remained cuddled together, foreheads almost touching. He tasted of tea, and smelled faintly like…she couldn't quite name it. Like _him_, she supposed.

"I've something for you, too," he murmured.

"Mmm?"

"Yes, but you see, I have to get up to fetch it."

"I can't say I like that idea much," she complained, with a half-hearted sigh. Nevertheless, she moved away, so that he might get up, and after a moment of rustling – it seemed Charles really _had_ put it under the tree and everything - he placed a large cardboard box in her lap. She ran her fingers over it, stalling, though she couldn't say why.

"Open it," Charles urged her, and she lifted the lid tentatively.

"It's a dress," he said softly, as she lifted a bundle of fabric out of the tissue paper. "I'm afraid I don't sew very well, so I had to have one made."

"Ohh," she breathed, running her hands over the smooth material, "It's _lovely_." Her fingers found a round, embellished neckline and tiny little buttons running down the front.

"I was hoping you would like it."

Her hands had held a great many different fabrics over the decades, from rough cotton bed sheets right up to the Countesses' evening dresses. This one was a soft cotton, softer than the rugged, practical cloth she was used to, but not too fragile.

"It's very nice, Charles…You really shouldn't have."

"Well, I have now," he said firmly. "I just hope it fits. The girl at the shop said it should be fairly straightforward for you to put on yourself. You must forgive me; Miss Baxter did a few alterations in the hopes of having it fit you better."

"You asked her about…it fitting?"

"Yes," said Charles, still blushing at the memory. "You're current ones, erm, well, don't quite-"

"Don't quite whatsoever," she interrupted him, laughing slightly. She hoped to save him some embarrassment, knowing how uncomfortable he must have been asking for another woman's advice on her, well, figure. "You're quite right. And I'm sure it will be better for it."

Charles breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't think him offensive for pointing out how her body had changed. It had been positively mortifying to ask Miss Baxter's advice, but if it would help…

Charles cleared his throat. "I just wanted you to feel…I don't quite know."

"But I _do_ know," said Elsie softly. "Charles, would…would you like me to try it on?"

"If you like," he said, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. Elsie smiled.

"Then I will," she said, standing. "Give me half a minute."

It took much longer than half a minute, but when she returned to the living room, Charles gave a sharp little intake a breath that was more than audible to his wife. It had a higher hemline than most, but not so much that she didn't feel respectable. It was the fashion these days, and in her stockings, it felt perfectly natural. The material was light, not a dress for the depths of winter, and the sleeves stopped mid-forearm, giving her more freedom than she was used to.

"Well?" she said, smiling at his reaction. "What do you think?"

It would forever be a shame that Elsie couldn't see his adoring look, but she heard it in his voice, perfectly clearly. "I think…I think you look wonderful."

She blushed, smoothing her hands over the front again. She'd once fancied herself a competent seamstress, but this was certainly one of the nicest dresses she'd ever owned. "Umm-"

"You really do, Elsie," he said moving closer to her, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I promise."

"I believe you," she whispered, reaching for him, needing to touch him. "I cannot wait until it's warm enough to wear it every day."

"Well," said Charles, pulling her into his arms. "That's the other part of the present … if you're agreeable."

"What is?"

He kissed her deeply, and for a moment she almost forgot her question. The dress was suddenly much, much too warm. "I was hoping," said Charles, running his hands along her sides, "that we might take a honeymoon trip? Do things properly for once?"

"That doesn't quite sound like us…" said Elsie. "But I think I'd be agreeable to that."

"Perfect," he said, taking a step back to admire her again.

Being on display was not something that was comfortable for her, this woman who had made a living blending into the background, for whom going unnoticed was the ultimate mark of capability. But this was Charles … and _only_ him. She thought she might be able to get used to, being on display for _him_.

Another thought occurred to her. "Charles, I don't even know what colour it is!"

"Blue," he said, taking her hands, still mesmerized. "But not dark…sort of something…lighter. And it has a light pattern outlined in cream."

"What sort of pattern?" she asked.

"Overlapping flowers, if you were to examine it closely…here," he traced his fingers across her middle, outlining little leaves and stems for her, tracing around her torso. Her corset dulled the sensation, and it frustrated her so. Time seemed to slow down. He focused solely on his hands painting the pattern for her, and it was all she could do to keep breathing as he did so. All the way down her arms he gently pressed the winding cream-coloured vines into her skin, across her breastbone, and down around her sides. It was tantalizing and frustrating at the same time, and Elsie put a stop to it when she could take her growing want no more.

"Charles," she ground out.

"That's the pattern," he murmured, his hands still on her waist, unable to let go.

"Charles," said Elsie, blushing even deeper. "It's a very lovely dress, but…"

"But?"

"Would you mind taking it off?" she whispered to him.

* * *

**TBC...**


	34. Looking

**My thanks to chelsie fan, as always. Special thanks to deedeedeedee for her input on this chapter as well. And thanks to all of you, who have waited so patiently for an update. **

* * *

_Would you mind taking it off?_

He let go of her waist, only to take her face in his great hands. Gentle, unhurried, he kissed her softly.

"You're sure?" he asked. He had to be sure. He wanted reassurance after reassurance.

"Yes," she said, her hands running up his chest, slipping under his jacket. "I am."

It was she who pulled him down into a kiss this time, and with that they were stumbling together, finding it impossible to kiss and walk and hold on to each other all at the same time. After a few awkward steps, they stopped trying to manage and stood still, catching their breath and getting their bearings. She blushed at her own forwardness, but took his hand anyway, her cane long forgotten beside the settee, and led him into their bedroom.

Hearing their bedroom door shut so firmly behind them made her heart jump in her chest. She'd made a decision, a very firm one, but that didn't mean she was entirely confident in how-

And then her line of thinking was cut off abruptly when he tugged her hand and pulled her closer. His thumb on her chin was her split second warning before his lips were on hers. She forgot momentarily about being nervous. She just wanted him, in any and every way possible. Her fingers finally pushed his jacket from his shoulders and he shrugged it off, tossing it away with uncharacteristic disregard. She pulled at his tie, already loosened, and it slid off easily in one smooth motion. Charles broke their kiss to take his tie from her hands and set it aside.

When he stepped away from her, she felt surprisingly lost. She could hear him moving across the room, probably simply picking up his jacket, but all she wanted was to have him back in her arms as quickly as possible. She couldn't wait another second. Reaching out, she took a step or two before stumbling. She heard him curse under his breath, and before she could speak, he was steadying her and murmuring apologies in her ear. He held her tight and kissed her firmly, his effort to reassure her that he was still there with her. Present. Practically shaking with the desire she'd awakened in him, but trying to remain still. He took her hands and guided her towards the bed, sitting down himself. To have her standing between his knees meant that he wouldn't have to crane his neck anymore in order to kiss her.

She smiled at him, the feeling of his legs pressing into her sides, his hands swiftly unbuttoning her dress, letting it slip from her shoulders, guiding it over her hips and down to the floor. She tried her best to undo his buttons, but they were so tiny, and her hands had started to shake on her. She tried to still them for what felt like an eternity before Charles stopped her and took her hands in his. He brought them to his mouth, kissing them as he had before, sending that same warmth blossoming through her.

"I'll do that," he murmured, admiring her form in only her shift

And just like that, her fingers were still again, but her worry still lingered, just shy of the surface.

His fingers were nimbler; decades of practice meant that in no time, all of them were undone. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his bare chest. He'd even undone his cuff links, but left the removal of the actual shirt to her. She stalled, and on her face was a look of great concern. He couldn't bear seeing her look so distressed.

"Elsie. Elsie, what is it?"

She took a full step back, trying to compose herself, but failing miserably.

"Elsie, you know you don't have to-"

"No," she said. Firmly. Quietly. "I want to. I do."

Charles didn't know what he'd done wrong. He'd done his best not to push her. Perhaps it was too fast, perhaps his eagerness was tangible to her.

"Charles," she whispered, blushing furiously. "I do want to, I promise you. But it's just…it's just…" The words lodged in her throat, and for the life of her she couldn't manage them.

"Come here? Please?" he begged, opening his arms to her. Slowly she took a step forward, and he stood, wrapping his arms around her. She gulped and sank into his embrace, hugging him back tightly.

"Charles, it's just…that I've never, well, seen a…man." It was easier, so much easier, to say it pressed against his chest. She tensed, awaiting his reaction.

"Ever?" he said evenly, stroking her hair, trying to respect how important her discomfort was while still reassuring her that everything was still all right.

"Well," she said slowly. "I suppose… as children we'd swim in the loch naked and it didn't matter. Men who got too drunk at a barn dance and weren't discreet enough in relieving themselves outside…" She couldn't believe she was bringing up something so crass now. _Now_. Of all times. But she couldn't help it; she needed him to understand. She was a woman well versed in the theory, but entirely new to its application.

"I think…" she said quietly. "I think this is a bit…different." She gulped back the tears that had so suddenly rushed to the brink.. Her anxiety about this moment had lain dormant for so long she'd gotten used to its presence. Her voice refused to remain steady. "I don't know how I'll manage this now that I'll never...well..."

"See me?" he provided flatly.

She nodded, still pressed against him. He sighed and she braced herself for him to let go, but he did no such thing. Instead he held her for a minute, inhaling and exhaling deeply, setting aside his own urgent desire for a moment, to try and focus on her distress. Eventually he took her hand and slipped it under the fabric of his shirt, over his beating heart so she might grasp something of how she made him feel.

"I think there is a solution, my love."

Her voice was still wobbly when she answered him. "Oh?"

"You'll just have to 'look'," he said softly, removing his hand and leaving hers. "As long as you need. And we'll sort it out together."

She let out a deep breath. Steadied by his pulse beneath her palm, she felt his calm wash over her. She moved her hand beneath the fabric, across his chest and shoulder, slowly pushing his shirt back on both sides until it fell away. He waited, ever so patiently, only moving when it was time to drape his shirt over a chair, lest it wrinkle. He gave her a proper warning this time, and when he returned he brought her hand back to exactly where she'd lost contact with him. Gingerly she traced his arm back up with her hand and caressed his neck, dropping her forehead to his.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

He placed his hands on her waist, contenting himself just to hold her for the moment. "I love you, too, Mrs. Carson."

"Do you mean it? About letting me 'look'?"

"Of course I do," he promised her. "But perhaps it would be easier if you joined me on the bed."

She nodded, and climbed onto the bed, settling herself in a kneeling position. She shook her head slightly.

"What?" he asked, leaning his back against the headboard and taking her hands again.

She bit her lip. "I just never thought I'd ever be here with you."

He squeezed her hands. "Neither did I," he admitted. "But I couldn't be happier, Elsie. You do know that?"

"Yes," she nodded, a smile breaking through. "I think I do."

He loosened his grip and she ran her fingers over his hands, marveling at how gentle such large hands could be. Carefully, she ran her hands up his forearms and up to his shoulders, memorizing each and every line. Arms that had caught her, held her. These she knew, but somehow this was different. His skin bare to her fingertips as she danced over his chest, up his neck, and through his hair. With his curls freed by her fingers, it was surely in greater disarray than she'd ever seen, but being the one responsible for its untidy state was far more satisfying than any glance might have been.

Her fingers finally worked their way down until they grazed his belt buckle. Its blunt, cool metal was a surprising disappointment after the warmth and softness of his torso. Awkwardly, she wondered if he expected her to undo it.

Charles, on the other hand, feared offending her by simply unbuckling it himself, but his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight over the past few minutes.

They both spoke at the same time.

"Err, would you-"

"Would you like-"

Charles winced, but she laughed lightly, her face still blushing red. "We are quite a pair, Charles," she remarked.

"So it would seem."

There was a beat before he decided perhaps it was his turn to lead. "So would you like me to... "

"Oh for heaven sakes, yes, take them off," she said, her embarrassment taking the back seat to practicality at this point.

"All, erm, everything?" he asked, mortified at having to pose the question out loud.

"Well if you don't, we will certainly find ourselves having precisely the same exchange in about two minutes!"

She cursed herself inwardly for her curt tone. The bed shifted as Charles removed what remained of his clothing, but the mood had turned from awkward to almost clinical. Elsie covered her face with her hands. Why did she have to go and ruin a perfectly fine moment? Why did there have to be so many words involved?

_Because you're broken,_ came a little voice from deep inside Elsie. _Broken, damaged, incapable…_

_No_. She told herself firmly. _I'm not broken. I'm not- _

"Elsie?"

Damn it all, she was crying again. In wild, inappropriate daydreams, ones she'd permitted herself once in a blue moon, their intimacy was never like this. They'd known each other for so long, could read one another like a book, or used to, maybe. Before.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head and wiping away her tears. .

"Why don't you just lie beside me for right now," he offered. She nodded, and he shuffled underneath the covers and lay down. He extended one arm around her, pulling her close as she nestled in the crook of his shoulder. She rested her head on his chest, letting the warmth from his body kiss hers. Eventually her breathing slowed to match his. He kissed the top of her head, ran his fingers gently over her cheek. A little sigh escaped his lips and the sound filled her with relief. He wasn't disappointed in her... No if anything he was... content. Content just to lie next to her, her shift the only thing between their bare skin.

There was one other barrier though, wasn't there? The one built in her mind, the one that greedily fed on her fears of being an inadequate wife. An inadequate lover. Perhaps he was content lying next to her, vulnerable in a way that she couldn't bring herself to appreciate. Perhaps he was content if that was what they could manage, but she realized _she _wasn't.

She could feel the heat radiating off of him and it wasn't enough.

"Charles?" she asked, hoping he hadn't drifted off too far.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Might I be able to look some more?" Her voice wasn't sharp or pained anymore. It was bold. Almost sultry around the edges.

Charles couldn't help but beam brilliantly at her, pressing his cheek to hers so she might feel his smile while he spoke softly in her ear. "If you wish," he said, moving so she might sit up.

She passed him her pillow so that he could prop himself up against the headboard. Feeling her hands graze his chest was enough for his body to reawaken, a surge of want making him feel almost giddy. He felt a tug of vulnerability grip at him, his body entirely exposed to his wife...and yet it wasn't really, was it?

Not yet.

She trailed her fingers down his stomach until she didn't dare move them any lower. Instead she knelt between his legs, moving her hands down his thighs, over his knees, all the way to his feet. When she reached the bottom, she surprised him by tickling him.

"Elsie!" he exclaimed, laughing despite himself.

"I see my man is ticklish," she said, her face mischievous. This was better. Miles better, hearing him laugh. It wasn't awkward anymore...if anything...

If anything it was... fun. Lighter. Teasing. She moved her hands back under his legs, making sure to check if he was ticklish under his knees too.

"I'm going to get you back for that," he warned her, trying quite unsuccessfully not to laugh.

"I'm not ticklish," she informed him smartly.

"I will have to see about that," he said, reaching out for her. She looked so becoming kneeling in front of him, her breasts pressed tantalizingly against her shift. He pulled her closer, unable to help himself. He sat up to kiss her cheek, gentle little kisses that trailed up to just behind her ear. She practically melted into him when he did that, and he knew that. And _she_ knew he knew it.

"Charles Carson, you are dreadfully distracting," she told him firmly, her arms wrapped back around his neck.

"Is." _Kiss_. "That." _Kiss_. "So?"

"Yes, it _is so," _she said, though she sounded more aroused than annoyed by him. "Charles...Charles, _honestly_."

He let go of her, and she folded her lips with trepidation. "There is one more thing I have to...'_see'_."

"Right," he said, moving his head away so he could look at her closely. Her lip disappeared between her teeth and instead of kissing her, he ran his thumb over her lip, caressed her cheek, hoping she might feel more comfortable. Safe.

Slowly her hands trailed down his chest, not stopping like they had before at the line of coarse curly hair. He reached out for her, craving her softness.

His hands roamed up her sides, one caressing the side of her breast, causing her breath to catch.

"Charles," she said firmly. "Hands behind your back."

"Behind my back?"

She flashed him a grin. "How can I focus when you are being so very distracting? Hands behind your back."

He complied, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Her mouth was set again. Focused. Something had come over her that he'd never seen before. She was gorgeous, but he didn't even dare speak, lest he break the spell.

Her fingers grazed over something smooth and warm. Firm. He twitched at her touch. She was taken aback for a moment. He opened his mouth to try to explain, but before he could muster the words, she'd recovered and wrapped her delicate fingers around him.

He groaned before he could stop himself, but his wife merely smiled. Tentatively, she ran her hand up and down, taking her time to let her thumb trace the tip of him carefully. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't something so silky against her fingers. She held him more firmly, her confidence building as she stroked him again. His desire for her seemed almost like a perfume in the air that sent tingles down her spine, through her center.

"Elsie," he said again, his voice cracking.

"Yes?"

"I need you to-" He didn't want her to stop, but instinctively, they both knew that she should. She moved her hand away, but couldn't bear to break contact with him, her arms snaking around his neck and pulling him close so she might kiss him. His tongue parted her willing lips, and he pulled her flush against himself as they kissed hungrily. When they broke apart for air, Charles touched his forehead against hers again.

"Elsie," he said, his voice rumbling lower than she'd ever heard it.

"Yes, love?"

"Might your husband also 'look'?"

She nodded, but backed away from him. He wasn't quite sure what she was doing, until he realized her hands were slowly bunching her shift up until she could pull it entirely over her head. She slipped her knickers off swiftly, before her self consciousness could insist otherwise and she sat there, naked before him.

He froze, drinking in the sight of her. A treasure for only her husband to know. She reached out for his hand and when she found it she pressed it gently, but insistently against her breast.

"I think he might," she whispered.

* * *

**TBC... **


	35. Entwined

**My thanks to chelsiefan and to deedeedeedee for their help with this chapter. **

* * *

_"Might your husband also 'look'?"_

_She nodded, but backed away from him. He wasn't quite sure what she was doing, until he realized her hands were slowly bunching her shift up until she could pull it entirely over her head. She slipped her knickers off swiftly, before her self-consciousness could insist otherwise and she sat there, naked before him._

_He froze, drinking in the sight of her. A treasure for only her husband to know. She reached out for his hand, and when she found it, she pressed it gently but insistently against her breast._

_"I think he might," she whispered._

* * *

He touched her gently, and almost as shyly as she'd touched him. On a whim, he closed his eyes, mapping her body by feel alone as she'd done his. Her skin was deliciously warm beneath his palm. He cupped both her breasts in his hands and with one thumb he circled her nipple, causing*it to stiffen. He smiled at the sensation. She seemed to press into his touch, and Charles lost the ability to keep his eyes shut. When he opened them, he could hardly contain his delight. Her bottom lip was trapped firmly beneath her teeth, her body arched in the most attractive manner. He groaned, and she smiled, seeking out his cheek with her fingertips and pulling him towards her for a kiss.

Gods, he would never grow tired of kissing her. They'd grown quite good at this, he thought, her mouth opening easily and her tongue meeting his. She tasted sweet, of tea and shortbread and something inherently her that he could never quite put his finger on. His fingers tangled in her hair, which was still mostly pinned up in her usual fashion. She winced when he accidentally pulled a few strands loose and he drew back hurriedly.

"Elsie, oh, goodness, I'm sorry." His apology tumbled forth quickly, but she didn't look upset.

"Perhaps I ought to take it down?" she suggested.

Charles found his chest rather tight, and he made an effort at taking a deep breath. "Yes," he agreed after a brief pause. "May I help?"

She nodded, so he moved to sit behind her. Her hands went to remove the first pin, but he caught her fingers before she could. "Let me?" he asked, pressing kisses to her fingertips.

His voice had gone even lower than usual, and Elsie almost melted right then and there. "Alright," she murmured, unable to keep the breathlessness from her voice.

Charles removed the first pin he could find and a curl tumbled down. He let it slip through his fingers, his mind likening it to fine silk. As he removed more pins, the delightful coconut smell of her shampoo filled his nose. She remained very still, even when it pulled, and with each pin the tension between them seemed to increase. Only by focusing intensely on the task at hand did Charles manage, and even then it was at an agonizingly slow pace.

If she was frustrated with his slowness in undoing her hair, she didn't show it - other than biting down hard on her lower lip again, unsure of this new, strangely urgent want. Finally, _finally, _he was finished, and he ran his fingers through her hair to be sure that he hadn't missed one. Gently, he pushed her curls to the side, exposing her neck and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there. And then another. And another.

She let out a breath, half-sigh and half-vocalized, at the feeling of his mouth hot against her sensitive skin. She leaned back, her head lolling on his shoulder to give him better access.

She was intoxicating, all soft and inviting. He discovered that by kissing just behind her ear, she moved in the most tantalizing way, pressing herself firmly against his torso. Absently, her hand floated up beside her head, grasping at his hair and pulling him even closer.

He'd been trying to keep some distance between his pelvis and her back, awkwardly avoiding the possibility of his pressing up against her. He flushed, wondering if she noticed, wondering if she'd mind…

Elsie dropped her hand, wondering why her husband had shifted away from her so. "Charles?"

He wrapped his arms around her middle, and whispered reassuringly in her ear. "I'm right here."

"Are you alright?" She worried her lip, and he was quick to reassure her.

"More than alright," he told her. He held her gently for a moment, thumbs stroking her sides and she hummed in contentment. He pressed his cheek to her temple, enjoying simply being this close to her.

His hands traced mindless patterns across her ribcage and plain of her belly. The heat of his hands gave her goosebumps, and her cheeks flushed a rosy pink hue. Charles noted this with a bit of pride, and was bold enough to cup her breast in one hand again, teasing her nipple between two fingers. His other hand inched lower and he wondered if might ... that is, if she would let him…

He dropped his hand away from her breast and paused, unsure of how to go about things without her guidance. Her knees were pressed together, perhaps he shouldn't-

She'd sensed his hesitation and she placed her hand over his. "Charles?" she asked.

He might as well ask her. "Can I…" he trailed off, his hand still pressing against her abdomen. He noticed she was holding her breath, and he gathered his wits. "Elsie, can I touch you?"

"Yes, please," she breathed, curling into his chest. She brought his hand down until it rested between her legs and left it there, resting her hand on his forearm. She wanted him to touch her, to know her as she knew him. He complied with her request, parting her gently with his fingers. A wonderful feeling flooded her, rising until she felt almost lightheaded. He varied pressure, firmer and then gentle, slowly driving her mad. As he circled a particularly sensitive spot, she gripped his arm harder than she intended. He paused, and she thought she might burst.

"Is this alright?" he asked, his voice full of uncertainty.

"_Yes_." It took her a moment for her to gather enough breath, "Yes, Charles, it's ... yes."

He touched her again, this time with more intention and in return she melted into him. In the back of her mind she worried that she was slipping out of control. Suddenly, his other hand was on her breast again, and she unintentionally moaned aloud. Immediately, she stiffened and her hand flew from his forearm and clamped over her mouth.

He broke contact, and Elsie fought the urge to burst into tears. Gods above, what a wanton sound she'd made. How he must think-

"Elsie," he whispered in her ear, "it's okay."

"I'm sorry," she muttered, shamefaced.

"You don't understand," Charles said, soothingly. "I _want_ to hear you."

She shook her head.

"I do," he told her, "it's a perfectly lovely sound. From my perfectly lovely wife."

She smiled despite herself. "Charles Carson, I do not deserve you."

"I beg to differ," he rumbled, hugging her tighter. His hand snaked around her waist to her stomach. "May I?"

She nodded, and relaxed back against him as his fingers slipped between her legs again. Her breath quickened, but she couldn't bring herself to permit another sound escape her lips. It had been too mortifying, no matter what her husband said.

He seemed to sense her tension, how it held her back. "Let go, my love."

She wanted to, but she didn't quite know how. Her chest tightened as pushed her pleasure higher and higher. She didn't know what would happen if she fell.

"Trust me," he whispered, his breath also short. "Trust me and let go."

His words were the permission she needed. Something in her mind relinquished control to him, and she was rewarded with the most exquisite sensation. A few moments later, when the cry came from her lips, it didn't come with shame but with joy, and when she fell back down to earth her husband was there to catch her. She shook in his arms, somewhere between laughter and tears.

"I...I…" it took her a minute to formulate a proper sentence. "I didn't ... think …"

Charles seemed rather pleased with himself. "I love you," he said, pressing kisses to her temples.

"I love _you," _she countered, turning in his arms so that she might embrace him properly. "Charles ... I don't ... I had no idea."

He beamed at her. "Well, I'm pleased you trust me."

Her face went rather serious for half a moment. "Always," she said, tracing his chin, seeking out his lips for another kiss. "_Always_."

They bumped noses as she went to kiss him again, but neither of them cared, not even enough for words of apology. Elsie longed to make him feel as he'd made her feel. She wanted to know him entirely.

She let him guide her onto her back, trusting him not to let her head hit the headboard. He dipped his head, taking the opportunity to capture the peak of her breast in his mouth. He teased her nipple with his tongue, relishing the sound of her gasp. Her hands grasped at him, finding purchase on his shoulder and the back of his head. She pulled him up towards her so that she might kiss him, all full of fire.

For a spell, they just lay flush against each other, kissing with a passion that reflected how they both felt. When his arousal brushed her center she pressed her hips lightly against his, her way of letting him know he was welcome.

For Elsie, it hurt - sharp and sudden - but that only lasted a brief moment before it was replaced by a sense of completeness. There was a great pleasure in knowing that her husband had given himself to her entirely, worshipping her as he'd promised to do. He moved slowly, as slowly as he could manage until she joined him, her hips rolling in time with his. Their bodies moved together in a union she had no adequate words for. A now familiar tension coursed through her, building as he swept her up into a wave of pleasure. Her husband. Her Charles. Gradually the pace of their lovemaking increased, and instinctively she lifted her knees and wrapped her legs around him, surrounding him with her small frame. He groaned his approval in her ear, followed by her name and endless words of his devotion to her. He pushed relentlessly, and she bit down on her lip hard just before he made her cry out once again.

Her voice echoing in their tiny bedroom was what pushed him over the edge. He fell apart in her arms, shuddering and still stammering his love for her. She kissed him softly, not letting him go. They clung to each other for an impossibly long time, hearts and bodies entwined as close together as possible.

Eventually, they moved apart, and Charles took it upon himself to go get a cloth so that they might both clean up. He pressed a warm cloth into her hands and she knew what to do with it. He took it from her wordlessly when she'd finished. When he went away again, Elsie thought about searching about for her nightgown, but she couldn't bring herself to move. There was something oddly luxurious about lying completely naked and utterly spent beneath their bed sheets.

Charles seemed to agree with her, for he climbed back into bed and pulled her to him. He'd been gone only half a minute, but it might as well have been an age as far as he was concerned. He stroked her hair with one hand, and she pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his hammering heart slow down. He made a strange sound and sniffed, which struck her as odd. Elsie lifted her head in confusion. She snuck a hand up to cup her husband's cheek, and to her shock, she found it wet with tears.

"Charles?"

Charles was even more stunned than she was. There had been a great well of emotion that had overtaken him and before he knew it there had been tears streaming down his cheeks.

"It's alright," he told her. "I just … " He wasn't quite sure what to say. Elsie swept away his tears with her fingers and pressed kisses to his cheeks, to his jaw. When she was sure there were no more to fall, she rested her head in the crook of his neck. Charles responded by hugging her extremely tightly.

"I love you so very much, Elsie."

"I love you, too, my man."

He loosened his grip, and they settled into a more comfortable position with his arm around her waist and her head resting gently on his shoulder. Exhausted, delighted, and emotionally drained, Charles and Elsie fell asleep.

* * *

**TBC...**


	36. The Test on Miriam

**As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. **

* * *

Charles Carson was a man who snored.

Elsie knew this, had known this from years of looking in on him when he was ill and their shared time together in their cottage, but she had never appreciated quite how loud it was until it startled her out of sound sleep.

She lay there in the dark for a long while, wondering what she could possibly do. He was lying flat on his back beside her. Eventually, when it was clear she wouldn't get any sleep like this, she inched closer to him and using her elbow, gave her husband a light dig in the ribs.

"Charles," she hissed. "Be quiet."

He mumbled drowsily, his words incoherent. He shifted only slightly and resumed his impossibly loud breathing.

She gave him another light jab. "Charles! Honestly!"

"Waah?" That was her best guess as to what he'd said.

"You snore," she informed him.

"Yes, you do," he agreed sleepily, "and don't forget the cake."

She shook her head, trying not to laugh at the poor man.

"It's better than Mrs. Patmore's version, but please don't tell her," he continued, rolling onto his side. She was sure now that he was still fast asleep.

"I won't, dear," she told him.

"Because the lemons...so many…"

She felt his hand on her waist as he pulled her towards him, and she let him, giggling quietly to herself. Thankfully, when lying on his side, he was much quieter. Elsie snuggled against her husband and drifted back to sleep.

There were few things in life Charles Carson appreciated more than waking up with his wife beside him. It would turn out over the next several months that he almost always woke first. He didn't get up, though, for he didn't have to.

Instead, he frequently had the joy of watching her wake up. Never mind what she said, he thought she looked lovely in the morning. He rather liked the way her hair was disheveled and never quite entirely in its braid, or the way she would yawn and stretch like a cat, and then would promptly roll over and fall back asleep. He could have gotten up, and sometimes he did, particularly when he was very hungry. Somehow she'd managed to switch to eating breakfast at a later, more reasonable, time, but he never quite feel comfortable with it. Meanwhile, Elsie liked to sleep in.

He liked that he knew that. He liked that he was permitted to know everything now. He liked the way she snored. (She DID snore, even if not as loudly as she insisted he did.) It was almost dainty, unless she had a head cold. He liked that he knew every one of the freckles scattered across her shoulder blades and the fact that she always slept curled up on her right side. He liked how their bodies fit together in so many pleasant ways. He liked how sometimes, when she woke up in the morning and realized he was awake beside her, she would give the most tantalizing smile and climb on top of him.

He blushed just then to think of their time the other morning. It never seemed uncouth in the moment; he'd reassured her several times that he enjoyed her affections and that she could never be ridiculous to him. Sometimes he found himself...she would call it "in a state" upon waking up, and his wife was more than happy to oblige him. Other times, he couldn't manage it even if he wanted to. Instead of letting him feel ashamed or sorry for himself, Elsie just held him, kissed his cheeks, and settled into his arms. Sometimes, it felt like just lying together, cuddling in the early hours of the morning and listening to each other breathing, was the most intimate thing imaginable.

Her back was to him now, and he noticed that she shivered. The depths of winter had brought very cold weather, and their fire was only embers in the hearth. Swiftly, Charles slipped out of bed and went to fetch some kindling and a few more logs from the basket in the living room. The floors were freezing. and he lamented not putting on his slippers, but soon enough more wood was on the fire. With a few pumps of the bellows, it caught nicely. He climbed back into bed, but his actions had been loud enough that Elsie was stirring.

"Cold!" she muttered.

"Sorry, my dear," said Charles. He'd tried to be quiet, but it couldn't be helped.

"Mmm," replied Elsie blearily, reaching out for him. He cuddled against her and she gave a start. "Charles! Your feet are like ice!"

The fire gave several loud cracks, and Elsie propped herself up on her elbows in an attempt to orient herself.

"The fire will warm things up," Charles assured her, "come here?"

"_You_ come _here," _Elsie insisted, wrapping her arms around her husband. "And let me warm up those feet of yours. How can you even feel them?" She pressed her toes against his feet and rubbed his arms rapidly as if to warm him. Charles snatched up the blanket in one hand and pulled it over them. It was far too cold and far too early to be doing anything but cuddling.

* * *

They'd planned to postpone their so-called honeymoon until after the worst of winter was over. After all, London was rather miserable then, Charles insisted. They'd have a nicer time when the weather warmed up.

This had suited Elsie fine, and for the coldest of the winter months they settled into a comfortable breakfast routine. Breakfast was usually tea and toast, though occasionally Charles would venture into frying up eggs and tomatoes for them. Porridge was out of the question for several weeks after he burned it terribly. Twice. There were a great many kitchen mishaps, really, and truth be told, the dishes that were reliable started to become rather repetitive. Charles would have complained, but he didn't want to make his wife feel as though she'd failed him. Elsie would have complained, but she didn't want to sound ungrateful. So toast and tea it was.

Over breakfast Charles read her the newspaper headlines. If she wanted him to continue she'd only need to nod and he'd go on reading. She tended to dislike his grumpy commentary on the government's activities, but it did make for spirited conversations at breakfast.

After breakfast came chores. Without much thought anymore, she would tidy the kitchen, washing up the few dishes they'd made. Outside - against her advice and concern about the toll it took on his body - Charles would split wood. She could hear him grunt before swinging the maul, followed by the inevitable sharp thwack and a dull double thunk as the two pieces hit the ground. She worried about him doing something so laborious, surely they could hire a boy to help them with it. They paid one of the maids from the big house to come do some of the cleaning once a week – Madge, usually. But Elsie had a sneaking suspicion she would not be working for them much longer, what with all the talk of her beau…

_Love finds us all._

What a very romantic thought. Like something out of book, not out of her head. But she'd been thinking like that more lately. Sappy thoughts. Once she wouldn't let such notions so much as wipe their feet on her welcome mat, but now she entertained them for tea. How odd. How...pleasant.

He worked hard, her man. T They'd tried to manage the cooking, but more often than not, they ended up eating stew or sandwiches. She wished he'd go to Mrs. Patmore for some help, but she didn't dream of suggesting it. Not when he did so much. And he _did_ [do so much. And she did so little.

She knew she shouldn't think that way, but the thought was difficult to banish completely, and it would come spilling up at the most unexpected moments. Halfway through supper, she'd have to excuse herself to the washroom where she cried for seemingly no reason. It lingered an uncomfortably long time. She didn't like to bother him with it; he seemed so pleased with her now. She didn't want him to look upon her with disappointment.

_He'd love you anyway, Elsie. _

Still. There was no need for such melancholy. Elsie very firmly told herself, her mother's voice echoing in her head. _It's not proper to go around feeling sorry for yourself._

_Chin up, lassie. _Though her mother was long gone, the sentiment stayed. There was never time for tears; there was work to be done. There was always work to be done. On the farm, with her sister, with her Da...She'd moved to service to immerse herself in even more work. She'd spent decades, decades she was proud of, proving her work ethic, proving her worth.

She heard the door creak, and the gust of cold air that followed. Charles was panting, and she assumed he had another armload of firewood. She should get up, fetch the bin for him, and take a few pieces to lighten his load, but she stayed rooted to her seat.

_Lazy bones, _she chided herself.

"Els?" Charles grunted.

"I'm here," she responded. He'd gotten used to announcing himself every time he entered and every time he left. It was second nature to them now.

"Could you close...the door?"

The instruction provided her with enough motivation to finally get up, her joints creaking as she did so. Lazy bones and creaking bones it would seem. How droll.

She made her way to the door and pulled it firmly shut. The wind went right through her, and she shivered. She was so easily cold these days.

In the living room, Charles was depositing the firewood into the bin. It was a larger load than he really ought to have been carrying, but after nearly freezing his fingers off outside, he was anxious to warm them.

Elsie traipsed into the room after him, broom and dustpan in hand. "I'll sweep," she declared. He'd brought with him twigs and bits that trailed from the back door, down the hall, and into the living room.

"Never mind. I'll do that. You'll miss spots." said Charles, taking the broom out of her hands.

"But-"

"Why don't you sit by the fire and warm up, you look cold."

"Not half so cold as you," she pointed out.

"It will take me no time. Go on. We can have our tea and then maybe read a book if you like."

She surrendered the broom and dustpan dejectedly. Charles took them from her without stopping to catch the look on her face. He smiled with pride as he set about sweeping up the brush that he'd brought into the house. Sweeping was something he knew how to do properly, to the standard he'd been used to. Whenever she did it, there were corners missing, and it took twice as long. She'd probably thank him for it. With that pleasant thought in mind, Charles tossed the dustpan full of dirt and twigs out the back door.

Charles had returned from sweeping the hall. "Warmer?" he asked.

Elsie nodded. With the fire roaring, it was much warming in their living room.

"Well, shall we pick up where we left off with D.H. Lawrence?"

Elsie forced a smile. "Why not?"

"Good," said Charles, sounding pleased. He picked the book up off the side table, and they settled themselves on the couch. This had been a regular habit for them in the afternoons. A bit of a novel, which he read aloud to her, followed by their tea around four.

Of all the tasks that Charles did for them, this was one she felt no guilt about. He had such a marvelous voice, and without his job as a butler, he had no one to entertain with his theatrics. Elsie did not appreciate style and show for the sake of style and show, except when it came to their books. They had some overlapping tastes (if not similar interpretations), and having him read aloud gave the words a special kind of gravitas. She could have mourned not being able to read herself, but he made it so easy to enjoy stories again.

"'Chapter Eleven: The Test on Miriam,'" he began.

It was also a lovely excuse to lounge on their sofa together. He was large enough to wrap his arm around her waist, holding her snug against him, and still hold the book in both hands. They'd perfected this little arrangement, and she let herself relax into the story.

"'He never forgot seeing her as she lay'...oh my-"

Elsie turned in surprise. "'As she lay' … what?"

Charles scowled angrily as he skimmed down the page. "I ought not to say. It's highly inappropriate."

His eyes skittered down the page, reading too fast for anything nearing comprehension.

"It cannot be that bad."

"I shouldn't think you'd like to hear descriptions of such improper behaviour."

"Charles, we do quite a lot of things that are not very proper." She smirked, perhaps taking slightly too much enjoyment in her husband's discomfort.

"That well may be, but we are married."

"And they are _fictional_. Go on, Charles. Is it worse than the bawdy songs you sang on stage?"

Charles stiffened. "That _was _improper Elsie, and you know very well I'm not proud of that."

She grimaced at how sharp his tone was. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me to say."

He didn't acknowledge that she'd even spoken. He drew himself up in anger. "I refuse to continue with this vulgar excuse for literature, and I must say I am disappointed in you."

"Charles-"

"I'd think a woman of your standing would have higher standards than this..this filth. It's bad enough that they're adulterers, but to describe it in detail is beyond the pale!"

His words hit her like a blow to the chest, and she froze.

Charles slammed the book on the table with unnecessary force. "It's quarter to four. Why don't we call it a day?"

Elsie nodded curtly, feeling sickened. "I'll fetch the tea," she replied acidly before storming from the room and leaving her husband furious.

* * *

Charles watched her fuss about the kitchen. After the strenuous physical task of chopping firewood all morning and the stress of their argument that afternoon, he was glad to sit down and let her fix their tea.

"There we are: bread, cheese, and a bit of the ham that's left over. There are also biscuits somewhere…"

"Beside the bread bin," said Charles. Elsie gave a sharp nod and fetched them.

"Anything else?" she asked him coldly.

"Seems fine to me."

"Very well."

Elsie sat, a cup of tea in front of her, but she didn't move to eat.

"Are you not hungry?" asked Charles after swallowing a particularly large bite.

"I suppose not."

Her face was set in a tight smile, her head cast down. For a while, they sat in silence, and the only sounds were those of Charles's cutlery on his plate. Elsie sipped slowly and finished about half her tea before standing up abruptly.

"I'm rather tired. I think I'll have a nap. Not to worry. I'll be sure to do the washing up before supper."

"Elsie…"

He put a hand on her waist, trying to keep her from leaving the room. "I've offended you."

She snorted derisively before schooling her features into a blank expression. "I'm tired," she repeated plainly.

He dropped his hand in defeat and she left him to his meal. Charles stared at her empty chair.

_Damn._

* * *

TBC


	37. A Tale of Great Impropriety

As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

* * *

When she woke up later that afternoon, Elsie went to the kitchen to do the washing up as she had planned. Running her hand across the countertop revealed nothing but a smooth, empty surface. All of the dishes from their tea were gone.

"Charles?!" she hollered, her voice echoing through the house, ensuring it would find its way to her husband whether he liked it or not.

"I'm here!" he said, hurrying into the kitchen. "Is anything wrong?"

"The dishes are finished." She didn't look pleased or grateful, as he'd expected. Instead she scowled, her arms crossed.

"I thought...since you were tired, it might be a nice gesture."

"Right," she said biting her lip. Anger and guilt swirled around her mind, poisoning her thoughts. "Well, that was very kind of you," she said acidly.

"Elsie, what's the matter?"

"Why must something be the matter?"

"Please don't treat me like a fool. You're angry at me."

"I told you I'd take care of the washing up. There was no need-"

"That's what this is about?" he said incredulously, touching her shoulder. "The washing up? You're angry that I washed some dishes?"

She shook her head slightly, not quite sure how to respond. Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away quickly.

"I thought perhaps I'd offended you over the book," admitted Charles. "I confess I was embarrassed, but I really thought it wasn't appropriate to read aloud."

"It's not about the _bloody book_, Charles."

"It's not about the dishes. It's not about the book. Then what is it!?"

He was aggravated; that much was clear from his tone. She could feel her husband's irritation in every syllable, could imagine the frown etched in his features: the one he often gave when a footman dropped something or he didn't approve of the dinner conversation in the servant's hall. Elsie felt frustration bubbling up in her sternum. They had been in this place many times before at Downton, and they always handled it with some degree of decorum. Decorum seemed rather far away at the moment.

"I'd rather not discuss it now," Elsie declared, hoping to retreat from an unpleasant conversation. She wasn't sure she could articulate what she wanted. She wasn't sure she even _knew_ what she wanted.

"I think we ought to discuss it now," said Charles firmly.

Elsie sighed. He was right, and she knew it. "Perhaps we should sit down."

"It's more comfortable in the living room. Why don't we move there?" suggested Charles.

"As you say."

Once seated on the sofa, Elsie felt less defensive. She reached out for him, and his large hands enveloped hers. They sat, holding each other's hands for a moment. He waited for her to speak.

"You've done nothing wrong," she said finally. Her voice was small. Dejected.

"I must have, if you're so angry," reasoned Charles.

"I _am _angry. I'll not deny it. But not exactly at you. And I'm...sorry that you are the one to see it."

Charles blinked, even more confused than before.

"I'm angry at myself, Charles, not you. I feel guilty - as if you are contributing to our marriage, but I am not. You deserve better, to be better taken care of, not to be...sweeping the hall and making meals-"

"Elsie," said Charles firmly. "Please, don't speak that way."

"You asked me what was the matter, and that...that is what's the matter."

"I thought we'd been over this. " pointed out Charles. "I thought you didn't feel like you had something to prove anymore. You don't have to prove anything to me, Elsie, and if I ever let you think over wise-"

"It doesn't work like that," Elsie sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know. I can't help it. I'm tired. I'm bored. I'm ungrateful. I can't believe you put up with it to be honest. A wife should be-"

"My wife should love me," interrupted Charles. "My wife should trust me when I tell her that I love her."

A tear escaped, slipping down Elsie's cheek. Charles pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to her palm. Gratefully, she dabbed at her face with it.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"Can't you trust me when I tell you that I'm happy?"

Her heart hurt, but she couldn't help but ask. "Are you truly happy, Charles? Honestly: are you?"

"If I am unhappy, it's only because you are, love. That is what distresses me."

"So this _is_ my fault."

"That's not what I meant."

"But it is true," she argued, her face screwing up in frustration. "I love you, Charles, but sometimes love isn't enough! One must think of practicality, and we haven't done any such thing. We subside on bread and stew; you're doing housework-"

Charles cut her off abruptly. "What do you think I expected?"

"What?"

He was squeezing her hands, as if by holding them tightly he could ensure that she wouldn't disappear on him again.

"What do you think my expectations were when I married you?"

"I…" her voice faltered. "I couldn't...I suppose…well, I don't know."

"And yet, without knowing my expectations, you presume that you have fallen short of them. Is that it?"

That was exactly it, but he didn't sound disappointed or angry. Firm, perhaps. Definitive.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I do believe I have."

"And is there any way that I might convince you otherwise?"

Elsie bit her lip again. He hadn't done anything wrong; she'd told him that. She didn't know what she could possibly want from him. "I don't think so," she said quietly.

Charles felt as if his mind were spinning in circles. "Then what am I to do?"

"I don't know, Charles. I know you mean it, but it doesn't feel right. I can tell you that I believe I'm enough for you just as I am, but in my heart I wouldn't mean it. It would be a lie."

"Do you think I'm lying to you when I tell you that you are?"

"Well, you don't tell me that I am. Not really."

"I didn't think I had to. I thought that should be common knowledge by now." He cupped her face with his hands. "You have been, and you will always be enough for me. I wish you believed that."

"I can try harder," Elsie declared.

"What about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"What can I do?"

She was silent for a moment, resisting the urge to dismiss his offer. He wanted to help. How could he help?

"Tell me that, then," she said. "That I'm enough. Tell me always. I don't know how I've come by such ruthless self-loathing, but I hate it as much as you do. And it will not disappear overnight, and I'm...I'm…" her voice caught in her throat and she furrowed her brow, "I'm concerned that it won't ever... go...go away."

"Elsie, love." He didn't ask her not to cry. Instead, he comforted her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight to his chest.

"It will go away," he reassured her. "Maybe not today … or tomorrow, but it will."

"You can't know that," she sniffed.

"I do. I know the woman I married, and I know how incredibly strong she is," he whispered fiercely. "And I know that you deserve to be happy, and you will be."

She sobbed harder at that, giving in to the rush of emotions that had surged up. Gods, she hadn't cried quite like this since she was a little girl in her mother's arms, listening to a maternal voice that told her she was made of stern stuff, that she could conquer anything.

In his arms, she felt the same way. She wasn't going to let her own grief and frustration destroy her or her marriage. As she cried, she got almost angry at the idea. How dare this make her feel less than? How dare it rob her of her hard won happiness?

"You're more than enough, Elsie, do you hear me? So much more."

She nodded her understanding, her tears slowing down. She hiccuped, and covered her mouth immediately. "Sorry- hic!" She was half crying, half laughing now.

He laughed with her, a deep rich sound. Not _at_ her, mind. He pulled out a second handkerchief.

"Two?" she asked, when he pressed it to her cheek. The first was was still clutched in her left hand.

"I had a hunch about today," Charles replied. "It's good to be prepared."

"As you say," she agreed. She took the cloth from him and wiped her face. Shaking, she sat up, pressing her hands to her cheeks, breathing deep.

"I'm finished with this," she declared, deciding firmly that her cry spell was over. She felt a rush of relief, leaving her feeling almost tingly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm ought to wash my face."

"Of course," said Charles. "But will you come back once you've finished?"

"I will," she promised him. "and I won't be half a minute."

True to her word, she came back a moment later, her eyes still puffy around the edges, but with a small smile on her face.

"You look lovely," Charles told her. From his voice, she presumed he was still on the sofa.

"I do not," she shot back. Crying did not suit her, and she wouldn't hear any false flattery on the subject.

"Fine," he said, with exaggerated sarcasm. "You look like a hideous troll that lives under a bridge and eats children for supper. Is that better?"

She laughed - heartily. "Much better," she told him.

"I will never understand women," Charles muttered to himself.

"I heard that," she told him.

"Nothing wrong with the troll's hearing, it would seem."

"I'll smack you in a minute," she deadpanned.

"I'd rather you not," he said. "If my wife promises not to hit me, I might have a story for her."

"Might you?"

"A tale of great impropriety and vulgarity," he said, tapping the book in his hands.

"Changed your mind on that, have you?"

"I have," said Charles. "I think we might just survive it."

She sat down next to him, and folded herself into his arms once again. "I look forward to it, Mr. Carson," she said, drawing out the "r" in a rather charming fashion.

"All right. But you _must not_ laugh at me."

"I solemnly swear."

Charles took a deep breath. "'He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was unfastening his collar.'"

"''So he left her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. She remained alone with herself, waiting.' And that's the end of chapter eleven.'"

"I don't think two lovers could both love and hate each other with such intensity," commented Elsie, stretching out her arms. One of them had fallen asleep.

"They certainly tend to extremes," agreed Charles.

"Do you suppose we're anything like them?" she asked, craning her neck towards him.

"I should think not," said Charles, surprised. He'd rather not imagine himself as a character in a story. "Why? Do you?"

"Well, I can think of one way …" said Elsie slyly. With a wicked smile she reached out and attempted to unbutton her husband's collar. Charles made a low sound in the bottom of his throat and pulled her hands away. Elsie paused, unsure.

"If I recall correctly," Charles said, pushing her gently onto her back, "you lie there while _I _unfasten that…"

* * *

**TBC...**


End file.
